Five Years, and Fifty Lilac Bushes
by Andi Horton
Summary: Edited, epilogued, polished and complete. Terribly sappy and terribly proud of it! Post-ATY, S&V, some J&I. The title is Sydney's answer when her doctor asks her how much she's forgotten.
1. Chapter One

****

Five Years, and Fifty Lilac Bushes

O0O0O

My head hurts.

It hurts, and it's dark in here.

Wherever here is.

It's soft, anyway. And warm.

But my head still hurts_._

I shiver, and sit up. I am on a bed, or a pull-out couch- I can tell that much, from the mattress and blankets. It's a good mattress, too. I like this mattress.

I'm on a bed, then- I feel the headboard with the side of my right hand when I brace myself on it - my hand - so I can put the other to my aching, throbbing forehead. Once the throbbing subsides somewhat, I try and figure out what I can about my surroundings, without moving around too much.

I am on a bed with lots of pillows, in a dark room that smells funny- not funny bad, but funny different. Like lilacs, maybe, and potpourri, and a man's deodorant and aftershave.

It smells like my parents' room did when I was very little.

Only it can't be my parents' room, because my mother hasn't lived with my father since I was just little. In fact, until a short time ago, I thought she had died. But very, very recently - like, a few hours ago - I found out that she was the one who'd had me kidnapped, and strapped to a very uncomfortable chair in a room severely lacking in aesthetic charm.

And you think you know a person . . .

I must have gotten out of there, somehow, to be in here, but for the life of me I can't remember how. Maybe the goose egg on the back of my neck has something to do with that.

I shiver, even though the room is quite comfortably warm, and reach to pull the covers up around me. They're warm, and smell like the room- lilacs, and aftershave. They feel like they're made of flannel- the sort of blankets that have a cozy blue and white tartan pattern to them, and keep you warm from September to April.

The pillows behind me are soft, and deep. I settle back onto them with a sigh, not caring that I should probably be figuring out exactly where I am, and how I got here. I'm too comfortable, and too tired, and to tell the truth, I actually feel safer than I have in a long, long time.

The bed squeaks gently as I lie back, and at once there come footsteps to my left, sounding like they're behind a wall. They get closer, and then a door is opened, letting light into the room. It's only dim, but to me it seems painfully bright, and I shield my eyes.

"Sydney, thank God," he says, and I nearly have a heart attack, right there in that strange, comfortable bed.

"Vaughn!" I choke, and my head is at once killing me, but I can't be bothered with it now. "Vaughn, you're alive!"

He steps back, startled. "Syd?"

"How did you get out?" I ask, trembling and bewildered, but too relieved to care. "I thought- I saw- when the door closed, you-" I break off, crying, and he is suddenly beside me, holding me up and letting me lean on him, blankets that smell like him wrapped around me, getting soaked with my tears.

"Shh, Syd, shh," he soothes, swaying gently, as if I were just a tiny baby.

Where did he learn to move like that?

And what is he doing here, anyway? Am I in his house? And how _did_ he get out of that room? As far as I had known, he had drowned. Then I had been in the room with my mother, who wasn't a man after all, and then I had been pushed from the bridge- hold on, how'd that bridge get in there?

"Vaughn," I say slowly, "what happened?"

"We found you under the bridge," he explains. "Or, rather, Tom and Lisa did. They brought you back here. Syd, what happened?"

This is terribly, terribly mixed up.

"Vaughn, who are Tom and Lisa?"

He looks at me, and even in the dimly-lit room I can read the confusion on his face. "Tom and Lisa Borden. You know, our-" he breaks off. "Syd," he says gently, "how much do you remember of what happened?"

"I- I don't know. I remember you pushed me out the door, and got trapped inside, with the water. And then they grabbed me, and took me to Mom, and- and I fell? I think I remember falling, but- I don't know from where. A bridge. A little bridge, over a river, sort of. It was- the river was shallow, wasn't it? Almost no water in it. More of a brook, with rocks. Lots of rocks. And I hit my head- but, how did I get up here? Vaughn, I- I don't understand."

I am embarrassed to be acting like such a baby, but I can't help it. How did that river get into things? I can only remember the rush of air, the gurgling sound, and that familiar smell of clean, cold water before I saw the rocks, and then nothing. Had Mom had me pushed off the bridge? Fine, but where did she find that little river, and how did I get to the bridge without remembering any of it? And why does Vaughn have that horrible, scary look on his face?

"Sydney," he says gently, "I think you should sit down."

"Sit- no, Vaughn, I want you to tell me what happened! How long have I been unconscious? How did you get out of that room, and where is my mother?"

Vaughn sighs, and looks at me with, as far as I can tell in the dim light from the hallway, fond exasperation. "Mule-girl," he sighs chidingly, then begins to speak very gently.

"You've been unconscious for two days now, Sydney. And I don't mind telling you, I thought we'd never get you back. The hospital couldn't find any swelling, any bleeding, anything- they said there was nothing they could do for you, so . . . we just brought you here. Tom and Lisa were worried sick, too, and so were the Pattersons and the Clarks. I don't think we've been alone in this house since they brought you in. We've got a lot of good friends, Syd."

"Then how come I don't recognize any of those names?" I demand nervously.

"I'm getting to that," he says quietly.

"When?" I ask uneasily. "Vaughn, I still don't understand how you got out of that hall."

"The- oh, the hallway. Your father found me, and stood outside the door, and told me to float up to the ventilation shaft. Then I just used the scewdriver on my pocket knife to get the screws off and open it so I could crawl out."

"Okay, but- how did you get me away from- from Mom?"

He sighs again. "Sydney," he says, "is that really the last memory you have before the bridge? Of- of being in there, with your mother?"

"Yes . . ." I say uneasily. "Vaughn, is there something here I'm not getting?"

He looks at me more gently than I ever could have imagined was possible, takes a deep breath, and then tells me.

"Sydney, all of that - with your mother, and the room, and everything else - it happened over five years ago."

"F-five years?! Vaughn, what are you, crazy?!" I am scared now. No, I am terrified. "Vaughn, I don't- I don't understand."

"Neither do I. My best guess is you retained some type of . . . . I don't know, memory loss, but we'll have to take you to a doctor to be sure."

"That's another thing, Vaughn. You keep saying _we_. When did we become a 'we', I'd like to know. What are we- are we . . . are we dating, or something?"

"No," now he looks like he doesn't know whether to laugh or to cry. "No, we're not dating. At least, not anymore, Syd. We- Sydney, we're married. We have been for almost four years."

"Married." I say stupidly.

"Yes."

"To- to each other?"

"Yes," he laughs.

"Oh." This is very faint. And, I suddenly discover, so am I.

"Here," Vaughn is saying, and I look up from a crumpled position on the bed - our bed - into his face. "You blacked out," he answers my unspoken question.

"Small wonder," I grumble, sitting up straighter. "Vaughn, we- I can't believe that!"

"Believe it," he smiles, and points to my left hand, where a pair of gold rings, one set with a beautiful solitaire diamond, are cuddling up against one another. As he does, I see that a slightly wider band of the same make and metal is on his left hand.

"Where- where am I, then?" I ask.

"New Brunswick."

"New- New Brunswick? New Jersey?"

"No," now he really laughs. "New Brunswick, Canada. In a little town called Sackville. We've been living here ever since we were married- hiding out, if you want."

"From- what? Or, who?"

"Sloane."

"We didn't get SD-6?" This is almost more than I can bear.

"Oh, we got them, all right. We just didn't get Sloane. He drugged his wife, and put her on a plane to her sister's in Hawaii the night you were kidnapped, and then staged a funeral so the Alliance would believe he had followed orders, and killed her. We took SD-6 down eleven months later, shortly before our wedding, but Sloane escaped, so after our honeymoon, just to be safe, we settled down here."

My head is reeling.

"Where did we go on our honeymoon?"

I have no idea why I asked. But he answers. "Niagara Falls."

"Oh. Was it- was it nice?"

He laughs. "I got seasick on the tour, but you had a great time. And I did, too, really. I was just a little green for a while."

"Oh." I digest this. "So- Tom and Lisa are- are our friends?"

"Yes, and our next-door neighbors. Tom and Lisa Borden- her dogs chased our cat into our house when we were moving in."

"We have a cat?"

"Yeah, she and Donovan are best friends. Her name's Francie."

"Oh." I giggle. Then, "what about- what about the real Francie? And- and what about Will?"

"Francie is fine, as far as we know. You spoke to her last year, when we ran into her on a trip we took to the States. She knows everything now- she knew most of it before we even left. SD-6 made every newspaper across the globe, one way or another. Will knew too, but you haven't seen him since shortly before the takedown. Sloane blamed him, partly, for everything that happened. He . . . Sydney, I'm sorry. Sloane had him killed."

I am crying, and shaking. It's too much to properly take in all at once, but I keep on demanding more information.

Dad and I, he says, have more or less reconciled with my mother, in a very stiff, awkward and mostly at-arm's-length sort of way- she even came to the wedding, though she sat way in the back and left before anybody could ask her who she was, and we don't know where she went after that. It was her request, before she left, that Vaughn and I go into hiding, so Sloane couldn't get to us. She really did love me after all, Vaughn assures me, though I am still skeptical, and plan to speak to Dad about it later on.

Weiss knows where we are, Vaughn explains, but for safety reasons he is not allowed to visit. He has a wife and twin sons, now, and they live in Bristol, England. Dixon and his family are safe also, tucked away in some undisclosed location. Christmas cards and birthday presents are sent through secure channels at appropriate dates.

"He helped us take them down, in the end," Vaughn adds, then sees my face, and is concerned. "Sydney, you need to rest some more. This has to be so hard for you. Just lie back down, and when you wake up again, call. I'll be right downstairs."

"No," I plead, even as he helps me lie down, "will you- Vaughn, will you stay with me?"

His face softens, and suddenly it becomes a face that, I realise, I must have seen every night for over two years now- the face of a man who is very much in love with me. I am scared, at first, at the sight of it, but suddenly it seems so right, I feel twice as comforted than I had before, and let him take my hand.

I am asleep before my head hits the pillows.

O0O0O

I have many confused, terrible dreams, filled with faces. Some of them I recognise, some I don't. Maybe I should know who those people are, and in the dream I think I am supposed to, but I can't, no matter how hard I try. Finally, it's too much for me to handle, and I break down, crying.

When I awake, it is still dark, and I think at first that I am still crying, because I hear wails all around me. But it's not me. It's coming from down the hallway, the door to which Vaughn has left open, although Vaughn himself is not in sight. I hesitate, but not for long.

Reaching out for a bathrobe I didn't even think I knew was there, I get out of bed, and shrug into it. It is green, terrycloth, and warm. It feels good as I wrap it around me and burrow my chin into it, stepping timidly towards the open door. The hallway floors are hardwood, like the bedroom- honey-colored maple, with a well-aged patina to them, and warm under my bare feet. The hallway is narrow enough to suggest an older house, and the wallpaper is a sumptuous rich, dark green colour, with beautiful maple baseboards and a matching border where the wall meets the ceiling. I admire the decor for a minute bbefore realising, with an awkward sort of jolt, that it's probably all of my own choosing. Then I remember my original purpose, and move forward again- the crying is coming from my right, and I move toward it.

There are other doors, all maple to match the floor, with antique wrought-iron handles, and one of these is ajar. It is from behind this one that the crying is coming, and I push it open. Inside is Vaughn - my husband - with his back to me. He is doing the rocking motion I marveled at earlier, and talking softly.

No, I correct myself, he is singing.

But what is it that he's singing?

I listen carefully, and hear his soft voice filling the room- the room that has the blind on its window up, revealing a starry night, and bathing the furniture with a soft blue glow. Almost as soft and tender as the words he is singing . . .

"And it's butterfly kisses, after bedtime prayers, sticking little white flowers all up in her hair . . ."

Vaughn, I am surprised to find, doesn't have a terrible voice.

Then I see who he is singing to.

And I fall down, and don't know anything more until I wake up in bed, with him bending over me yet again.

"You're going to have to stop that blacking out, Syd," he smiles, and I wonder if this sense of humor appeared in the past five years, or if it was always there, and he just never had the opportunity to show it. "That's the third time this week."

"Vaughn-" I gasp. "Did- did we-"

"Mm-hm," he says gently, but with a matter-of-fact note to his voice, to keep me coherent. "We did."

"How- how many?"

"Just one," he promises. "For now, anyway."

"What-" I take a deep breath, "what's her name?"

"Emily," he says, and holds out the tiny bundle of miniature person for me to touch, and smell, and marvel at. "Her name is Emily."

O0O0O

Needless to say, I am not going to get much sleep tonight. How could I sleep? I can't. Not with my daughter to meet, for what feels like the very first time. She is perfection itself, with just a few wisps of blonde-brown hair on the top of her tiny head, and big, brown eyes.

"Just like yours," Vaughn tells me, with such tenderness I nearly weep.

Her tiny fingers keep curling affectionately around my own, and even when she finally sleeps, I cannot. I sit, holding her, memorizing every detail of that precious, perfect face as the sun comes up, and Vaughn snores gently beside me. When he finally wakes up, I am standing by the window, Emily in my arms, looking out onto a beautiful garden and lawn, both of these well-endowed with lilac bushes, aging oak trees, a plethora of vibrantly-coloured floral life, and early-morning sunshine.

"Vaughn, it's beautiful," I say, a catch to my voice. How can I forget something so beautiful?

"Yeah," he smiles, "it is. I keep telling you that, but you keep saying it needs more work. You know, you did all that. All except the trees."

"I did?"

"Yeah, you did."

I didn't know I could garden. But then, I never really had much of a chance to find out, did I?

Vaughn gets up, still wearing his own teal-coloured terrycloth robe over long johns. I wonder, before I can stop myself, if he sleeps like that very night. But then, why should I stop myself? He's my husband, isn't he? It may not feel as if he is right now, but it's starting to feel better and better each time I think about it.

"Vaughn," I say slowly, "what do I call you?"

"Mike," he smiles. "Sometimes Michael, but mostly now it's just Mike."

"And you call me Syd?"

"Or Sydney. But yeah, you get Syd quite a bit. You used to hate it, but you finally got used to it."

"My father always hated it when my friends called me Syd," I recall. "I wonder what he would say if he knew about this."

"You can ask him yourself," Vaughn - Mike - smiles. "He's coming to breakfast this morning. I called him once you fell asleep."

"He- he lives here? In- what was it, again?"

"Sackville. Yes, he requested it. Actually- you requested it, and he demanded it."

"Have we- have we, um . . . are we . . . comfortable? Together? Me and Dad?"

"Not entirely. But you're much closer to him now than you probably remember yourself being, and he loves you, Sydney. He loves you very, very much. Both of you," he gestures at Emily, and I hold her a little tighter. She stirs, and opens those big, dark eyes to look at me.

"Who couldn't love her?" I ask, and hear my voice tremble. "Vaughn, I love her. I know I do. But- I can't remember her!" I am crying now, and he is suddenly holding me - both of us - tightly. "What sort of mother forgets her own daughter?!" I sob, and he is suddenly very stern.

"Sydney, don't start for one minute thinking that you are a horrible person because somebody else pushed you off that bridge. You hit your head, and you cannot remember, but Sydney, listen to me- you _will_. You will remember. Maybe not right away- maybe not for a while. But Sydney, you will. We'll go back over every inch of your jogging route. We'll look at every photo album we have. You'll read every bill addressed to us, every invitation, thank-you note and RSVP. You _will_ remember. Do you hear me? You _will_."

I am crying still, but more quietly, and I nod.

"I hear you," I whisper, and he tightens his grip around Emily and me.

"Good. Now, why don't the three of us get washed, and changed? I think we'll all feel a lot better after a hot bath. How about it?"

And because I cannot think of any objection, I agree.

O0O0O

The bath is hot- very hot. In fact, it is only a half degree below too hot. But it is filled with foaming bubbles, and the entire bathroom - all warm, dark greens and pine paneling - is filled with sweet-smelling steam. I soak for almost an hour, letting tensions flow out of my muscles, leaving me weak but satisfied by the time I finally reach for an impossibly plush bath sheet, wrapping it around myself.

Vaughn - Mike - has assembled a pile of clothes for me, and left them just inside the door on a low stool. I am oddly comfortable with the thought of him rooting round through my dresser drawer, selecting outer garments and the more unmentionable items I see before me. It's a strange feeling, to be so comfortable with somebody I still can't think of as anything but a really good friend, and I ponder it as I pull on all the clothes in the pile.

They're comfortable too, and I look in the mirror, trying to get used to what I see. I am the same height as I remember myself being, with maybe a few extra pounds, probably still clinging from the delivery- well, how old is Emily? Two months? Three? Not very old, anyway.

My hair is a shade or two darker than I am used to, but that could be from a lack of sun. It is also shorter than I last remember, styled so it fluffs and curls out at my shoulders, making me look younger than I did with it long. I am surprised at how much I like it.

My face is much the same- tired, with sad, puppy-dog eyes, and a worried pull to my mouth. Am I still worried? Maybe so. But, if that new sparkle in those otherwise sad eyes is anything to judge by, I am also pretty happy.

The clothes, a light cotton shirt and summer-weight slacks, are a bit gentler-looking than the things I recall wearing, and although I don't remember them they fit me with the comfort of clothing that has been well broken in. Once I brush and part my hair, I fasten the left side back over my ear with an almost whimsical little silver barrette from an accessory-filled basket, and dash on a little of the make-up in the drawer beside the sink. Done, I decide that, whatever this me is like, I am going to be comfortable being her. She's a far more peaceful person than she once was, whatever her mouth might be trying to say, and peaceful is something I am more than ready to be.

Vaughn is waiting for me downstairs in a kitchen that is filled with sunshine. He is wearing a casual shirt, and khakis, and I am startled in spite of myself at how great he looks in them. Emily is lying in a little bassinet-type thing, and I find that she looks so perfect, I can't resist picking her up and cooing to her.

"Hello, there, pretty girl," I croon, holding her head out, away from me, resting in the hollow of my hand. She is looking up into my face, beaming a sunny, toothless grin as I go on. "Who does Mommy love so much?"

I have said these words without even realising it. It is as if I'm so used to saying them every morning, that I do so now without even knowing it, until I've said them.

"She didn't know where you were for the past two days. I'll bet she's some glad to see you again," Vaughn smiles, and I am startled to find he is behind me, but he is smiling down at both of us so naturally, I have to smile back.

"She's perfection," I say softly, and his smile broadens.

"Yeah. She is."

We study her together, as if it were the first time we had ever seen her. The teeny fingers, the miniature ears, and the whispers of hair arching over those big, brown eyes that serve as eyebrows. She has ten tiny toes and an itty-bitty, shell-pink mouth that curls and sucks sleepily at the air.

"She wants her breakfast," he smiles, and I blush to the roots of my hair. He is instantly sorry.

"Look, Syd, I know how hard this must be for you. I mean, I'm used to it. Talking like this about- about things that you think are private. To you, it- it's like it all never happened. Do you think you can feed her? Or should I buy some more formula? That's what I was using when you were unconscious, and she didn't like it, but of course she'll get used to it, and . . ." he trails off. "What do you think?"

"I-" I am at a loss for words. Fortunately, I do not have to come up with any on that particular subject, because at that moment, there is a tap on the doorway, and my father sticks his head in to the kitchen.

"Knock, knock," he smiles, and I am startled to see that it is a real, warm smile- the kind I had almost given up hope of seeing on him. It looks like he's been practicing it, too.

"Hi, Dad," I say quietly, and he walks over, looking concerned, but still smiling.

"How are you feeling, Sydney?"

"I- I think all right," I offer. "I just- I can't remember anything."

"No, I know. Mike told me. Is your head bothering you? How's your vision?" He asks a few more questions, and I answer them all as best I can. When I am through, he seems satisfied. "I doubt there's a concussion or anything, but just to be sure, we should stop in and see Paul sometime soon, don't you think?"

"Paul?"

"I'm sorry," he says sincerely. "This will take some getting used to. Paul Donald is your doctor- he has been ever since you moved here, and he's a wonderful man."

"Oh- then yes, I think so," I decide.

"Good. Now, what's on the menu?"

"Well," I say hesitantly, glancing at Vaughn, "I'm not entirely-"

"Eggs Benedict, Jack," he volunteers, "and croissants, and orange juice. Coffee, if you like."

"I do," my father promises, and then holds out his hands for Emily. I hand him to her, somewhat reluctantly, and watch as he becomes an entirely different man. His face softens, and his eyes sparkle as he holds her the same way I did, facing him, her little feet resting on his chest and her head cradled in his palm as he speaks lovingly to her- so very lovingly. I cannot remember him ever speaking that way to me, but then again, circumstances being what they were, I can see why he might not have.

"Do you love your grandpa?" he wonders, bouncing her slightly, and she giggles softly, waving those itty-bitty fists in the air.

"I think you know she does, Dad," I smile, reaching out to touch the tightly-curled, chubby little hand. "I think you know it."

O0O0O

Breakfast is interesting, since I feel in many ways as if I am eating with strangers, although I know them so well. They keep trying to jog my memory by saying names, or remembering events, but none of it does any good. I do get some insight into my new life, though, and learn a few valuable details.

"Nobody here knows what we did for a living," Dad explains gravely. "As far as they know, I'm just a University professor, and so are you. Mike is a fifth grade teacher, and we're one big happy family from West Virginia. Nothing more, nothing less."

"What do I teach?" I manage to ask.

"Linguistics. And you're good at it, too," Vaughn smiles.

"How did you- do you have a teaching certificate?"

"Yes. The CIA fixed everything for me. I supposedly transferred from a private school in Virginia when you got a job offer here, at Mt. A."

"Mount eh?" I ask, bewildered.

"Mount Allison University," Dad translates. "I teach English Lit. and we do lunch together almost every day. Of course, you were out on maternity while we finished the year, but you still brought Emily to eat with us each day at noon."

"So- classes are out? What month is it, then?" I wonder.

"June. The twelfth, actually," Vaughn says, "so public schools aren't through, and I am still supposed to go in to work today, but I called and told them you just woke up, and they said no way were they going to make me come in. They all think you're wonderful," he added, "especially after you came in while you were pregnant to show the Sex Ed. class 'the consequences', as it was termed."

"Oh. And- when was that?" I manage to ask, my cheeks suffused with crimson.

"You were eight and a half months along, so it must have been two- no, almost three months ago."

"Oh." I examine my Eggs Benedict with great fascination, and Vaughn and Dad both laugh.

"You're a lot more relaxed these days, Sydney," Dad explains at last, reaching over to rest his hand on my shoulder. "We all are. Or rather- we were, until Lisa mentioned that man."

"Which man?" I ask.

"We aren't sure. She saw a man poking around our house one day when we weren't home, and when she came over to tell him we were away to the beach, he all but ran away."

"Did he give a name?"

"No. It's amazing she even got a description, he was moving so fast. She said he was of slight build, not overly muscular but not really puny either, with light brown hair and a limp."

"Do we know anybody like that?" I wonder.

The two men in my life exchange a glance I don't miss.

"What is it?"

"We-" Vaughn clears his throat, "we're, uh, wondering if it could have been Sloane,"

"What?! But- Sloane doesn't limp."

"He does now," Dad admits.

I must look baffled, because Vaughn quickly tries to explain.

"The day the CIA was planning to storm SD-6, you had instructions to call in sick," he relates. "We expected gunfire, and we wanted to keep as many people safe as possible. You called in as per your directions, and the response you got from Sloane seemed all right, but something must have tipped him off, because your father called us from work a few hours later to say that Sloane had not shown up at all that day."

"I had instructions to step out for coffee just before the CIA team came in," Dad explained. "Since we had deliberately broken the coffee machines the day before, it seemed a valid excuse. But Sloane must have realised something was going on, because he was waiting for me, and knocked me out. I came to in a Dumpster, and narrowly missed getting thrown out." He gives a dry chuckle.

"Sloane couldn't get out of the city," Vaughn explains, "because when Jack didn't check in, we set up roadblocks all over the place. We'd been hoping that Sloane would at least think he had gotten then mole when he coshed your father, but it doesn't seem like it. Instead, we think Sloane must have been putting two and two together for quite some time, and figuring you out, but, for some reason, let things go on. Even if that's not the case, we do know he figured out you were the mole, because he went to your apartment, and attacked you."

"Oh." I say, my voice very small. "What- what happened?"

"You fought him, and you were winning," Vaughn says, "when he smashed a lamp over your head. You were out long enough for him to tie you up, and call our headquarters. He asked to speak to your handler, and they connected him to me. He wanted to trade you for free passage out of the city, but I didn't have the authority for that, so instead I suggested that I come over to your place to pick him up, and smuggle him out myself."

"You would do that?" I ask, disbelieving. "For me?"

Vaughn gives me an odd look.

"That's exactly what you said when he put you on the phone."

I blush.

"Anyway," Vaughn goes on, "I got there, and he was hauling you out the front door to meet me when Weiss showed up. He'd figured when I got the call that something was up, and tailed me. He started shouting at you, and you hit the ground, leaving Sloane wide open."

"Then you shot him?" I ask.

"Not me."

"Weiss?"

"No."

"Then-"

"I did," Dad says. "Mike brought me along. I asked him to."

"He threatened me with death and dismemberment if I left him behind," Vaughn growls. "Not necessarily in that order."

"I was worried for you," Dad tells me calmly. "But I was behind the car, and Mike was blocking most of my view of Sloane. I could only get him in the ankle, but I did manage to do some serious damage to the bone."

"Okay," I say slowly, "but how did he escape?"

"He dragged you back to your feet, and said he'd trade you for the car."

Dad shrugs. "It sounded fair to us."

"We couldn't trade fast enough," Vaughn smiles. "You and I had been dating for a little while, and I think it was that day when I first realised that I really loved you. We proposed to each other the next day."

"We- what?" It's all coming so fast, and my eggs are cold, but I am enthralled. It's a whole chapter of my life I don't even know about, unfolding before me as I simply sit here, listening.

"I had bought you that ring," he points to the one I am wearing now, "the day before, and I was planning to give it to you that night. But- you beat me to the punch. We got together for dinner at my place, and over dessert you asked me if I had ever thought of marrying you. So I pulled out the ring and said the thought had crossed my mind. We were married just one month later- it wasn't big, or anything, but we both agreed we didn't care. And- it was perfect. There were a few complications, I guess, but nothing we couldn't handle, and really, Sydney- it was perfect. Then we went on our honeymoon, moved to Sackville, and- here we are."

I am laughing and crying now, and Dad reaches over to touch my hand.

"Sydney," he says gently, "we love you. Both of us. We love you very, very much, and we will help you to remember all of this."

"Promise?" I sniffle, and he smiles, tightening his grip on my hand.

"Promise. Now, why don't you let Mike and I handle these dishes, while you take Emily into the living room? I think," he adds, smiling, "that Mike has got some reading material there for you."

O0O0O

Does he ever.

Emily and I are surrounded by neatly-stacked piles of photo albums- four and a half years' worth of memories, neatly catalogued in fifteen volumes.

I guess we take a lot of pictures.

I open the one on top, and look in. The first four pictures are all stuck together, a black and white strip such as is spouted out by those tiny photo booths you squeeze into and make faces for to kill an hour or so. Apparently Vaughn and I, in a moment of temporary insanity, threw caution to the winds and took advantage of one, because there are two such strips in place. They are dated with a series of numbers I recognise all too well- the pictures were taken the day after I saw my mother for the first time after almost twenty years. In the pictures, though, it seems as if the previous night's events have not adversely affected us at all. In actual fact, we are laughing and making absurd faces at the camera as if, for just a brief period of time, we decided to be normal for a change.

The ones that follow are obviously sporadic, taken only out of sheer desire for posterity. They deal chiefly with two subjects; one is a lone girl who is most often glancing surreptitiously over her shoulder, and the other is a man usually walking a brindle-and-white English bulldog. He seems always to have just happened to have glanced in the direction of the camera at the moment the picture was being taken, but it is obvious that the photographer was willing to wait all day. There are only one or two shots of Vaughn and me together, and in all of these we look tense; worried. As if what should have been happiness at being together is instead a terrible, not at all irrational fear that we will be caught at any second.

It is in the fourth album that things start to change a bit, with the two of us together in more of the pictures, looking more relaxed, as if the worry that has plagued us for so long has finally started to show signs of disappearing. When I reach the back of the album, I find a small note printed in slightly loopy, black ink on a plain square of white paper that reads simply, 'Call in sick for Tuesday. We're taking them down in the afternoon, and I don't want you in there.'

I smile at this, wondering only briefly how I took it before beginning to suspect that I was not overly offended at the gesture, and reach for the fifth album, opening it to the first page.

The picture there is of me, pouting playfully at the camera and showing off the engagement ring I am wearing now. I am sitting on a couch I don't recognise, but I guess is in Vaughn's apartment. Donovan, Vaughn's bulldog, is sitting at my feet, grinning up at me as if I am a regular guest in his home, and he is moderately happy to see me back. The next picture is of Vaughn and me squished together, the position of Vaughn's arm indicating that he held the camera away from our faces and snapped the shot himself. We are tilting our heads toward each other, and smiling a bit foolishly. We look like we're in love.

The next few pictures are similar. Me, showing off my ring, and Vaughn, smiling at the person who is holding the camera- me, I think. There are one or two of me holding Donovan, and some of Vaughn posed the same way. One even shows me trying to fit the ring onto Donovan's toe, Donovan looking embarrassed, and I wonder if we had a little wine that night.

The ones that follow are taken in a small, well-lit restaurant I don't recognise, and are all of Vaughn, my father and me. Dad looks a bit awkward, but mostly proud, as if we were already working things out between us. There is even one of him with Vaughn, and though their arms aren't around each other or anything, they don't look like they're about to rip each others' throats out, which is a nice change for me. There is one of the three of us sitting together, and I guess the waitress took that one. I am in the middle, and there is not a doubt in my mind as I look at the faces of the men on either side of me that they both love me very much indeed.

The pictures that follow show wedding preparations, and take up the rest of the album. Francie, it is obvious, was with me the whole way, and does not even seem too put out that she only has a month in which to whip me into shape. I see me buying shoes I don't remember, a dress I don't recognise, and flowers I can't recall choosing. I see me shaking hands with a pastorly-looking fellow, who seems delighted to be speaking to me, and lots of me with my hand tucked through Vaughn's arm as if that's where I want to keep it for the rest of my life.

There's another album altogether for the wedding, and I open this one with care, oddly nervous about what I will find.

I see that I wore an ivory-toned, sleeveless, silky-looking dress, that went straight down to my ankles where it ended with no train. My sandals matched it perfectly, and there seemed to be a small amount of intricate beadwork decorating the empire waistline that set off the simplicity of my fingertip veil. I stare at myself in rapt fascination- the dress is lovely, so exactly what I know I would have chosen, that I am almost jealous of the me in the photograph, because I can't even remember being her.

Francie was my bridesmaid by the looks of things, and wore something short and vividly blue, which seemed to be attracting the attention of Weiss, try though he might to keep his mind on being Vaughn's best man. Dixon and Diane were there, looking extremely proud of me, and Dad was, of course, there as well, looking younger than I imagined he could in a gray morning suit with an ascot and a charmingly old-fashioned gray waistcoat. There is even one that includes a woman wearing an ivory-coloured suit and a matching picture hat sitting way at the back, and I catch my breath when I see her.

Mom.

But there are no more shots of her, and it is as if she only stopped in for a glimpse of me before moving on again.

Vaughn, I see, wore a suit and waistcoat almost identical to Dad's, and I don't think I ever imagined the man could look that good. There are shots of him in what I assume was some sort of bachelor suite, eating, relaxing with Weiss and Dad, talking with Dixon, getting ready, waiting for me, and- I study the picture on the right-hand leaf with avid interest.

It is a head shot of Vaughn, his eyes wide and all-revealing, a strange look on his face I had never thought to see on anybody's. He is dumbstruck by something, and looks as if he will fall over at any moment, but still can't take his eyes off the object of his interest. Beneath the picture, in Dad's tight, precise hand, is a small caption- 'What's Mike looking at?'

I turn the page, and see, on the left-hand leaf, a single scrap of paper with identical script reading, 'Well, who did you think?'.

On the facing page is a picture of me, on Dad's arm, walking down the aisle, blushing and beaming all at once under my veil, my eyes obviously locked on Vaughn's. Shivers rack my body, and for just a second, I can feel the smooth gray slate stones under my shoes as I walk, my hand slipped through Dad's arm, feeling his suit even through the thin silk of my gloves. I smell lilacs, and honeysuckle, and I see Vaughn, looking at me, smiling at me, and I think that I could never be more in love with anybody in my entire life.

Then it is gone, and it is less of a memory than it is a mere impression, but it was there, and I know that, years before, I was, too.

O0O0O

Vaughn and Dad join me when I am on the ninth album, which is of us touring Sackville. I see more of the town in that album than I see out our windows, and I see that Vaughn and I are not at all unhappy to be here.

"This," Vaughn says, pointing at a picture of us sharing an ice cream cone, "was when we decided we would live here."

"Who took these?" I wonder, since most of them are of us together.

"Lisa. She saw us wandering aimlessly, and took pity on us, She introduced herself, and offered to take some shots of us looking around. In the end, she used up two and a half rolls. We," he adds, "are pretty bad about taking too many pictures, and Lisa isn't much better."

"So I see," I smile, and examine a shot of us leaning against each other as we sit on the grass, gazing at a fair-sized pond graced with a large fountain, a pair of swans, and a generous assortment of ducks.

"Where's that?" I wonder, pointing.

"That's the swan pond," Vaughn smiles. "We spend our anniversary there each year- we take a great big picnic lunch, and stay all day, just eating together and talking."

"And I can't remember it," I mutter, flipping to the next page. I can feel Vaughn and Dad exchanging worried glances, but they say nothing, settling down on the sofa on either side of me. I finish the album, and Vaughn passes me the next one.

"Moving day," he smiles, when I open to a series of photographs showing a chaotic jumble of junk. "We had to put it all in storage for a week before we took possession of the house, and it was a pain in the neck, but somehow or other, we got it done."

"Who's the mustache?" I giggle, pointing to a man who seemed to pop up frequently in the pictures. He's burly and muscular, with thick black hair and a magnificent mustache of the same shade. He looks distinctly Italian, and there is a kindly twinkle in his eye.

"That's Vince Arsenault," Dad tells me, smiling. "He runs the U-Haul company here, and when he heard how much stuff we had, he offered a bunch of guys to come help. People around here are like family, Sydney. They don't even have to know your name and they're already offering to help out."

I smile, and look at the photos. There is one of Vaughn and me talking to Vince. We look relaxed and happy, and I see that, as usual, I have my hand tucked securely into Vaughn's elbow, right where it belongs. There is also one of Dad struggling under the weight of a dresser, and I am standing to the side, looking concerned.

"You wanted to help me," Dad recalls, "but I wasn't having any of it. You two had already helped me get my own things into storage, and I wasn't going to let you do all of that by yourself."

"You might have let me help," I reproach, turning the page. There is an eight-by-ten shot of a massive, rundown Victorian, paint peeling off and lawn overgrown, a crow peering suspiciously down from the roof. For just a second, I think I can feel the lawn under my feet, and Vaughn at my side. The smell of spring fills my nostrils, and somebody is laughing. Then it is gone, and Vaughn is speaking to me.

"That's what our house looked like the first time we saw it."

"What were we thinking?" I giggle, but I scrutinize every inch of it, taking in each flake of paint, blade of grass and dirty windowpane. "Oh- it could be so beautiful," I breathe, and I earn two startled looks from my male relations.

"That's what you said when the realtor took us to see it," Vaughn says. I swallow.

"Well- what does it look like now?"

"Come on," Dad smiles, taking my arm, "and we'll show you."

O0O0O

Outside it is summer. Birds are singing and the sun is heating the lawn as we step out onto it, the four of us together, and head towards the sidewalk. Donovan comes hurtling around the house, barking, and greets us all enthusiastically as I look up at what is my home.

Three stories above the ground, a beautiful old home wonderfully kept, with a paved circular drive and more lilac bushes than I can shake a stick at. Trees tower over our heads, shading us from the majority of the sun, and the veranda has a collection of white wicker furniture that looks inviting. There is a black and silver tabby cat dozing on a cushion on one of the chairs, and when she sees us, she blinks sleepy acknowledgement before returning to her nap.

"It's gorgeous," I whisper, my eyes travelling over the white wooden frame. Each window looks only a year or two old, as if we had replaced the whole lot of them, and I can see a burst of colour around back. "Is that the garden?" I ask, pointing, and Vaughn nods.

"You really grew a green thumb," he smiles, and we go around back, where I find a vibrant paradise all ablaze with early blossoms. I touch an Oriental Poppy with a feeling of unreality.

"I did this?"

"All of it," Dad nods. "You get sunburned and you bleach blonde each summer, and you love every minute of it. Recently you started wearing a hat, which, of course, cut down on the bleaching, but you still pick up a pretty impressive tan each year."

I wander down a flagstone path, and study everything that's been planted. Some things look like they don't plan to open until later, while others are preparing to burst out any day now. "Mm," I sigh, and bury my nose in some sort of fluffy purple thing. "I love it here."

"Yeah," Vaughn says, and looks suddenly as if he might cry, "you do."

Dad looks down at his shoes, and my own eyes fall quickly. I suddenly no longer feel awkward with them- just incredibly sad, because I must love both of them so, so much, and I can't remember anything about our life as a family.

"Excuse me," I whisper, and run up the back steps, into the house.

I find myself in an unfamiliar hallway, and I am not sure how to find a more familiar part of the house, but there are stairs nearby and I climb those. I end up on the second floor, but the stairs continue up, and so, impulsively, I follow them, finding myself in a sort of attic area with a few dusty boxes and a mobile wardrobe rack bursting with clothes all encased in garment bags. I sit down heavily on one of the boxes, and try to stop shaking.

How, I wonder, can one bump wipe out five years? How can I forget somebody I am in love with? A father who loves me, and who, I realise now, I myself love? How can I forget my daughter, and the house we all worked to fix, and the cat we have, and the garden out back that I must have invested a massive portion of my life in?

One little bump, and it's all gone- just like that. Okay, fine.

But how does one get it back?

O0O0O

I hear them talking downstairs.

"Do you think I should go speak to her?"

"No." A heavy sigh. "She needs time alone."

"But you saw her, Jack- she was scared."

"Of course she was. She loves you, and she can't even remember it. She has an entire life here, and it means nothing to her, and yet- yet somehow, it mans everything as well. You can see it in her face when she looks at you, and Emily. You're her family, and she _knows_ it, Mike- she just can't remember it."

"I want to help her." He sounds so broken that I am terrified. What can I have done to make him love me that much?

"I know you do. So do I. But this- this is something we can't cure for her. It needs to be Sydney. You understand?"

"Of _course_ I understand!" he is angry but not angry all at once. "I'm not a two-year-old! But- I don't like it."

"No," Dad laughs sadly, "neither do I. Now, come on. Let's get this little girl fed."

O0O0O

I don't realise I have fallen asleep until I wake up, and see that it looks like late afternoon outside. I am stiff, and achy, but I am rested, and it all seems to balance out somehow. When I go downstairs Dad is gone, and Vaughn is asleep on the couch. Emily is awake in the bassinet, but she is quiet, and I smile down at her, reaching out to tickle the soles of her bare feet. She gurgles, and sticks her fist in her mouth so she can gum it contentedly.

She is so beautiful, I can't believe she's really mine. Ours, I correct myself, glancing over to where Vaughn is stretched out amid a tower of photo albums. He looks exhausted, and my heart goes out to him. If this is hard for me, I can't imagine how it must be for him. It's one thing to not remember something, but it must be another thing entirely to remember every little detail, and yet have your wife act like nothing has ever happened between the two of you.

I touch his hand hesitantly, and watch his muscles twitch nervously, drawing an involuntary smile to my lips. He looks so haggard that I don't disturb him further- I just draw an Afghan up to his chin, take Emily from her bassinet, and tiptoe from the room.

In the kitchen, a glance at the clock above the stove tells me it's half past one, and I debate what to do. Everything is clean and orderly, except for the photo albums, and I don't want to put those away- I want to look at them, but later, when Vaughn wakes up. Lunch is over, and supper won't be for a while, so that remains for me to look elsewhere for something with which to occupy myself.

In the end, I decide to take a walk. Maybe it's a little silly, but I do want to go and look at the town I've been living in for the past three years of my life. So I scribble a quick note to my husband using the message board on the fridge, dig a stroller out of the hall cupboard for Emily, find us a pair of hats, and set off with my daughter into the great unknown.

The sun is still shining, although with less brilliance than it started out. The whole town smells like freshly-cut grass- grass, and lilacs, since it seems that the fragrant shrub is this particular municipality's roadside flower of choice. Emily kicks her feet in the air as I walk slowly, enjoying the whole atmosphere of lazy security. I am approaching a crosswalk when suddenly, seemingly from out of nowhere, there appears a slender woman with short dark hair and a little boy. She gives me a delighted smile, and greets me.

"Sydney, great to see you! We missed you yesterday- is everybody all right?"

"I-" I am, quite frankly, at a loss for words. For some reason, I am strangely reluctant to be the one to tell this lady that I have no clue who she is- that I haven't the foggiest idea what she is talking about. I am surprised at myself, but not so that I betray the instinct, bred into me over the near decade that I had been working for SD-6, to fake it.

"We, um- Mike had a touch of the stomach flu," I fib glibly, "and I did as well. We think maybe supper wasn't as fresh as it should have been."

"I'm sorry to hear that," she says, and does look genuinely concerned. "But you're better now?"

"Yes, I'm feeling a lot better," I say. "Mike is still sleeping it off. But- we'll see you next time?"

"Even sooner," she says, with the air of one who is reminding somebody of something. "Thursday, remember?"

"Oh- yes. Of course." I lie, wondering why suddenly I should feel so guilty about doing something I had done for years. "Thursday. I- I'll see you then, all right?"

"Sure, Sydney. Be seeing you!"

"Bye," I smile, and push Emily onward, shaking with relief. So I can still do it, even after all those years. True, I do feel much more guilty now than I remember feeling before, but I suppose it is because I know that woman, and even if I don't remember it, my subconscious does, and is telling me that it is wrong to lie to my friends.

The sun works wonders on my shivers, and I am nearing a busy intersection when yet another person stops to address me. This one is a giant of a man with a friendly look on his face, and he speaks delightedly to me in beautiful French.

"_Salut, Sydney! Comment ca va?_"

"Eh-" my hesitation is only momentary before I collect myself and reply glibly,_ "Bien, merci. Et tu?_"

"_Je ne pourrais pas être meilleur. C'était une autre fille. Nous pensons que nous ferons l'appel son Marie- que tu pense il?_"

"C_ela est un beau nom pour une petite fille._" I assure him sincerely.

And it really _is_ a beautiful name for a little girl- I just wish I knew that of the man who has given it to her. He does not seem to notice anything amiss, however, and chats on for several minutes more before excusing himself, and allowing me to continue on. I hope to escape unnoticed for the rest of my walk, but it doesn't happen. Rather, more and more people start speaking to me with a familiarity I find startling. Do I know _everybody_ in this town?

It would seem a reasonable assumption- I can't look a person in the eye without being delightedly greeted by name. By the time I find a small coffee shop, I am trembling with bewilderment. How can I know so many people, and not know them? It seems as if over half the town said hello to me today, and I am shaking from the strain of pretending. I am still shaking when Vaughn comes in through the door, a tortured look on his face, and makes a beeline for me.

"Thank God you're all right," he gasped, gripping me tightly, regardless of how I might feel about such a gesture. "When I woke up, and both of you were gone- Sydney, I thought that he'd taken everything from me."

"I left a note," I say in a very small voice, and find that I like his arms around me.

"Yeah, I know, and of course you couldn't know we have a system," he is almost talking to himself as he sits down across the table from me, gripping my hands to keep his own from trembling. "Of course you couldn't. I'm sorry Sydney, but we- well, just because both of us get nervous when we don't know where the other is, we decided to have a- a code, of sorts. We have a little thing we doodle on the message board if our message is genuine- a little fish." He dumps some sugar out on the table, and traces a simple design in it.

"See? We agreed that it if somebody came to the house, and- and took one of us, and if there was a message to be left, we'd know that there was trouble because the fish wouldn't be there."

"It looks familiar," I admit, squinting at it, but Vaughn does not seem excited by this.

"It's fairly common- it's called an icthus. I have one on my car, and you have one on yours, too."

"Oh. What does it mean?"

"It-" he hesitates, glancing around. "Maybe you'd rather-"

"Here is fine," I interrupt him, curious. "I want to know."

"It's the- the symbol that was used in ancient Greece by the Christians. They were being persecuted for what they believed, and so had to have some sort of secret symbol that identified their home as a gathering place for Christians. They used the icthus, because the Greek letters for the word 'Fish' are- well, anyway, Christians still use it today, sometimes. Just . . . well, there's a big market for memorabilia. That part's sort of sad, in a way, but the fish is simple, so we agreed to use it anyway."

"Oh." I digest this slowly- I've been taking in a lot lately, after all. "Then- then we- we're, um-"

"Yeah," he smiles. "we're Christians."

"Oh- so that's what she meant," I realise. "Yesterday was Sunday. She probably meant we weren't at church."

"Who?" he asks, and I describe the dark-haired woman and her little boy, making him nod.

"Yeah. That's-" all at once his eyes widen, and there is a look on his face that gives me much the same sensation as would a fist in my stomach as he shouts, "Sydney, get down!"

He throws himself on top of Emily and me, knocking us from our chair to the ground, as all around us I hear screams, and feel the intense, searing heat that accompanies the sound of the windows imploding with the force of the orange fireball that hurtles into our midst.

Then, for the fourth time in less than a week, my world goes black.

O0O0O

O0O0O

I'm almost scared to ask, but how'd you like it so far? I know it's a little tame for an Alias fic (okay, so except for the last paragraph it was all talk and no action), but this is the first third of the whole thing, so just stick with me, and I'll see what I can do for the next bit. I should also mention that I will be writing of Syd and Vaughn as Christians, since I myself am one, and that's what I know best, so if for some reason you really can't bring yourself to read that, then, well, I've warned you, so don't say I didn't.

If you want to archive this, be my guest. I'm flattered, actually. Just drop me a line and let me know, okay? You can also contact me to let me know what you thought, but please, keep it G rated, all right? If you didn't like it, that's cool, just try to be constructive. There's no point in telling me it was bad if you won't tell me how I can make it better.

It's rated PG just to be safe, though I know I'd let my kids read this, if I had kids, but hey, I'm not even married, so let's not get ahead of ourselves, okay? Now here's all that stuff that I so dearly love to hate.

Alias isn't mine. Pity me, because I dearly wish it were. I can think of at least ten things . . . but that's neither here not there. It belongs to ABC Touchtone, etc. and was created by JJ Abrams, Bad Robot Productions (Geez, what a name . . .)

Have I missed anything? Let me know. And keep reading!


	2. Chapter Two

O0O0O

_"Yeah. That's-" all at once his eyes widen, and there is a look on his face that gives me much the same sensation as would a fist in my stomach as he shouts, "Sydney, get down!"_

_He throws himself on top of Emily and me, knocking us from our chair to the ground, as all around us I hear screams, and feel the intense, searing heat that accompanies the sound of the windows imploding with the force of the orange fireball that hurtles into our midst._

_Then, for the fourth time in less than a week, my world goes black._

O0O0O

Okay, first of all I want to know what all this junk is about floating gently back to reality. Anybody who says you float gently back has never been unconscious before. You come back with aches and bruises and bumps and a desperate desire to crawl right back into oblivion, and stay there for another three weeks from next Tuesday. Voices filter around you, and you think that, if your eyes were open, they'd be crossing and you'd be running to the washroom with your hand over your mouth. Inglorious and indecorous, yes, but that's just how it is.

That is how I feel. I have a splitting headache, my stomach is churning, and I am sure my dorsal nerve cord has been thoughtlessly peeled out from my spine, and used to lasso five hundred or so rampaging cattle before being returned to where it belongs.

Now come the voices. Dad, getting louder and louder, like he always does when he's scared, and Vaughn, speaking rapid-fire, about to lose what little control he still has over himself.

There is another, new voice, too, speaking with aggravating calm. "I know you're both very upset, and understandably so, but you need to try and get a grip. You need-"

My father apparently takes this directive to heart, because I never find out what else they need- instead, there suddenly comes a choking, gagging noise, and Vaughn's hasty entreaties to my parent.

"Jack, no, not now, okay? He's doing everything he can for her, Jack, just let him go, all right? That's it- gently, now . . ."

There is silence, then, followed by a self-conscious throat clearing, and a very male "Well, now."

Trying not to smile, I deliberately moan, and hear at once a flurry of activity.

"Sydney?"

Even if, for some bizarre, wildly impossible reason I did not recognise his voice, I would still know it was him. I can smell him, and even with my eyes closed I can see him there, bending over me, looking into my face. But of course I know his voice. I could go deaf in a second, and fifty years from now I would still know his voice. I open my eyes, and see Vaughn there exactly as I had pictured him.

I smile.

"Hey."

He is trying so hard not to cry from relief that, as he answers, his voice cracks. "Hey."

"Emily-?"

"She's fine," he promises. "Just fine. Barely even bruised. We both landed right on you, and you cracked your head on the floor and put yourself out cold. But between the two of us, we managed to shelter her completely. She's asleep right now."

"Where am I?"

"You're at home. We have Paul here- Paul Gavin, our doctor. He's going to take a look at you, if that's all right."

"Yeah, sure that- that would be great." I sit up slowly, despite Vaughn and Dad's immediate protests, and the worried look on the face of a man with thick, almost black hair and a spectacular swelling on his right eye, who is standing back slightly from the bed. "I'm fine, really," I reassure them. "So- what was that? I mean, the window broke, didn't it? And- fire?"

"Yes. Sort of- somebody threw a molotov cocktail at you two," Dad says grimly. "Missed you both by a mile, I can't believe that anyone could throw so wide . . . but Mike got you both out of there before the police arrived, and I saw the mess on my way home from work. I was so afraid that- but you're all right. Both of you."

"Sydney," Vaughn says cautiously. "Are you still- can you-"

"Nothing," I sigh. "I mean, nothing I didn't already remember." I squint, trying hard, but the whole gap is still there, and I simply shake my head. Paul Gavin moves toward me, his good eye kind.

"If you don't mind, Sydney," he says quietly, "I'd like to ask you to do a couple things, just to make sure you didn't sustain a concussion from either of your falls."

I am agreeable, so he has me follow his finger around the room, press up on his hands, walk along one of the cracks where board meets board in the hardwood floor, and a bunch of other inanities that all simply prove I'm not dying. Then he sits me down again, and as he treats the scratches on my face and the bump on my head, he speaks to me.

"What is your full name, your age, and your date of birth?"

I give him these as I remember them being, and then he has me calculate my new age, which I do very quickly.

"What town are you in?"

"Sackville, New Brunswick," I answer, then wiggle a bit so I can see the bruised flesh on the right side of his face. "What, um- what happened to your eye?"

He rolls the good one. "My daughter is two years old, and everything is a major struggle. This one just happened to be regarding shoes, and my face just happened to be in her line of fire. Wait until yours hits the terrible twos- which brings me to my next question. Do you have children?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"One."

"Boy or girl?"

"Girl."

"When was she born?"

I stop, and think. My lip quivers.

"I- I- Vaughn?" I look up at him, and feel my face crumple, and tears flow down my cheeks. He has me in his arms, and I am crying now for all of the questions I won't be able to answer as Paul looks truly repentant, and my father slips on an impassive mask I know all too well. "I'm sorry," I whisper several minutes later. "I just- I want to know so badly, and I- I don't."

"That's fine," Paul soothes me, with just the right blend of sincerity and professional detachment. "Just- Sydney, from what you, Michael and Jack have put together, just what _have_ you forgotten, exactly?"

I manage a tiny smile. "Five years and fifty lilac bushes," I say, and Paul looks puzzled while Vaughn gives a quick laugh.

"Forty-two," he tells me, amused. "There are forty-two of them. There were supposed to be forty-five, but Donovan dug one up, a workman trampled another., and the third was just an underachiever, and didn't survive the winter."

I smile just a little more.

"All right, then," Paul sighs, "I can prescribe some codeine for that pair of goose eggs on your head, and you're going to have some spectacular bruises not too long from now - we'll look quite the pair, won't we? - but otherwise, all we can do is wait."

"Wait?" Dad is disbelieving. "That's it? My daughter can't recall her child's birth date, and you are telling us to _wait_?"

"Look, Jack, just get a- er- calm down, all right?" he hastily revises. "This sort of thing - this localized amnesia - is usually the least permanent of all. She's just wiped out a small chunk of her life, and it will return on its own in short order. I was hoping, when you said this was the second time she'd hit her head, that it might have come back, but- well, sometimes a shock will do it, and sometimes it won't. Sometimes, all it takes is a little time."

"Time," Dad mutters, and turns away. I glance up at Vaughn, and find he is watching Dad with concern.

"Jack?"

But Dad doesn't answer, leaving the room abruptly. Paul looks concerned.

"Watch him, okay, Mike? I know how upset he is- that little outburst was perfectly understandable, but some people- well- they might not see it as that. Just- watch him. After all, that's- that's quite a grip he's got there." He touches his throat, smiling faintly, then nods to me. "I'll see you Thursday, I guess, Sydney."

"Wait a minute," Vaughn says hastily. "You really think she'll be up to it?"

"Sure. She hasn't got a concussion, and amnesia isn't fatal, so by all means, come. I know Lorraine really wants to see Emily again, and we'll all want to see how Sydney is doing."

I make a faint negative motion of my head, so Vaughn calls Paul back once more. "She'd rather nobody know she has amnesia," he explains, and although I'll never know how he knew that's what I meant, at this moment, I love him more than I ever though possible. "So, if you could possibly-"

"Oh, of course. My lips are sealed. But- I _will_ see you there, won't I?"

Vaughn glances down at me, sees my puzzled expression, and smiles. "We'll see," is all he says, and Paul, nodding, leaves us alone.

We are in our bedroom, I see now, and I see that the blanket really is a blue and white tartan pattern that matches the deep blue walls. Sunlight is spilling across the bed in a fashion that suggests sunset, and I address Vaughn.

"How long was I out?"

"Almost three hours. Nothing compared to last time," he reassures me, and I can see in his face that he is trying desperately to keep himself from touching me. I can't help but smile.

"It's okay," I promise him, and he lifts his hand to my cheek with a look of relief.

"That's the second time in days I thought I'd lost you," he murmurs, and I smile.

"I'm harder to lose than that, Agent Vaughn," I promise him. "So- you saw the cocktail coming. Did you see who threw it?"

"I didn't, really. It was somebody in a dark jacket, and it wasn't Sloane- he was way too short. But he might have hired somebody to do it for him. I just- I saw it coming, and I didn't even quite realise what it was. It was just- instinct. Reflexes. Training you can't lose, no matter how hard you try."

"Don't try," I advise grimly. "You just saved my life with it. Mine- and Emily's."

For the first time, now, something occurs to me. "Emily. Why- who- which one of us picked that name?"

"You did," he says quietly.

"I did."

"Yes."

"After- Emily Sloane?"

"I don't know. Possibly. We'd agreed that the baby was going to be Emily, if it was a girl, and Will, if it was a boy."

"Oh." I swallow at the mention of something else I haven't really allowed myself to think about since I was told.

Will. Just one more casualty in a long line thereof. Only- different. Because he was my friend.

Even Danny didn't hurt this bad.

I clutch at my chest involuntarily, and Vaughn panics. "Sydney? Sydney, what is it? What's wrong?"

"It hurts!" I scream at him. I didn't know I was going to scream, and I am more startled than Vaughn, but I rage on anyway.

"It hurts! Everything Sloane did to me, for a decade, just ripped out my heart right now. I felt it. He lied to me, he cheated me of a _normal_ life- he cheated me of any real life at all. He _killed_ me, Vaughn! He killed Danny, and if that wasn't bad enough, now he's killed Will, and he might as well have done _me_ in while he was at it. Why bother pushing me off a bridge, anyway? Why not just chop off _my_ head, too?"

Vaughn starts to answer, but then looks at me as if he has seen a ghost.

"He- Vaughn what is it?"

"How did you know?" he demands.

"Know what?"

"Know that- know- how did you know how Will died?"

"I don't know what you're talking- _oh_!" I shriek, clapping my hands over my ears. "He was _decapitated_?! Vaughn, I am not _well_. I am emotionally _fragile_ right now. If you say things like that, to people in my condition, you push them to _suicide_. That is not _healthy_."

"No," he agrees, and there is a flavor of almost hysterical humour about him, "murder isn't, is it?"

I look at him, and all at once helpless, hysterical laughter explodes from me. High-pitched giggles that terrify me before they turn into deep, shaking sobs, and I collapse into his arms, where I remain as he holds me for the rest of the night, until I finally fall asleep.

O0O0O

When I wake up, it is daylight, but early daylight. You can tell, I realise, by the way the sun falls across the blanket what time it is. I would guess, from the pattern that dapples the gorgeous flannel, that it is before seven o'clock, and time to get somebody who actually knows how warm flannel is in June to make the beds up.

Vaughn is dozing beside me, and I study him with great fascination.

He looks exactly the same as he did when I last remember seeing him five years before, though maybe just a little bit drier. He's wearing his clothes from yesterday, as am I, and we are both sporting that rumpled, iron-on-the-fritz look I never thought to see on him. Does the man even wear suits anymore? What does a fifth-grade teacher wear, anyway? It's been so long since I had one, and I went to private school - you always had to wear a suit there. Public school teachers might dress differently. Why would you need a suit if you never wore it?

He looks so peaceful that I leave him there, and slip down the hall to Emily's room. She is fussing quietly, and I ease her out of the crib.

"Are you hungry?" I ask, responding to the sharp discomfort in my chest that has been steadily increasing in pressure since I woke up two nights ago, "Well, fine, then. But we won't have an audience just yet, all right? I don't mind doing this for you, but your Daddy is as good as a stranger to me, so we're just going to shut the door, and lock it, until you decide you've had enough, all right?"

Emily doesn't dispute me, so I shut and lock the door, and sit down to feed her, much to our mutual relief. I am surprised at my own adroitness in getting her to latch on- it seems my hands remember how to arrange her properly, even if my head isn't yet equal to the task. When she is done, I find a towel to sling over my shoulder and then hesitantly try to burp her. My attempts don't feel like much to me, but I must have been doing something right, because they produce ample results. I don't know whether I should be grossed out or laugh. In the end, throwing the towel in the hamper, I decide to settle for a bit of both before I change and dress her, and take her downstairs to the kitchen.

A cup of coffee and a croissant later, I am sitting in the living room with the remaining photo albums spread out around me. In case you have lost count, I still have five and a bit to go- I never got to finish the tenth, because Dad and Vaughn took me outside to see what we had done to the house. Now, I open the tenth album to where I left off, and finish it quickly.

The eleventh opens with a picture of Vaughn, Dad and me on the front porch, toasting each other, and I guess that Lisa must have taken that one as well- or at least, somebody did. The next is of me sitting in a lawn chair beside a young, smiling woman with short dark hair, green eyes, and a dimple in her left cheek. We are both beaming at the camera, and the caption underneath it, in handwriting I don't recognise but know is Vaughn's, reads 'Two giddy girls, Lisa Borden and my everything. Summer '04.'

My breath catches in my throat.

That is entirely too intimate a reference for me to handle right now, but here I am, reading it and finding it necessary to handle it. His everything. I am somebody's everything. No, not somebody's- Vaughn's. Putting a name to it is twice as frightening, but I make myself do it. I can't deal with it if I don't.

But- why should I have to deal with it? I married the man. I wore white - well, ivory, but only a woman would know the difference - and flowers, and I married him in (one could assume) a state of reasonable lucidity. So is it so surprising that he would think of me that way? Yes, it is, when I still think of him as the gorgeous guy who handed me counter-mission after counter-mission, and told me that I had his number.

555-4567.

That was his number. Even now I can remember it. Dial-a-Guardian-Angel, I should have put in my address book. But instead I had him down as Joseph Piatza, and Heaven only knows what I would have said if Francie had asked me if I was seeing an Italian student. Probably yes.

As I think of Francie, her namesake springs lightly up onto the couch beside me, and regards me gravely with deep green eyes. She's an extraordinarily pretty cat, and one gets the feeling she knows it quite well.

"No wonder we call you Francie," I say, and tickle her under the chin. "Pretty kitty."

Pretty kitty arches her back as I run my hand along it, drawing forth a thunderous purr from the depths of her little chest, and when I have stroked her long enough, she curls herself into a tiny ball beside me, and remains there as I finish the album.

Lisa features majorly in it, as does a large, ginger-haired man captioned in my own handwriting as being Tom. There are other people as well, and towards the end of it I find the dark-haired woman from my walk the day before. This time she has three boys and one impish-looking little girl gathered around her, each child looking as if he or she is about to take off in one of numerous available directions. Their names ares not given, simply a caption that states this is Mike's goal for his wife. It is in my handwriting, so I guess that I had put it in there to tease him. Because even if it was, I really don't think that I'd have minded at all.

It is in the next album that there is a visible change. I am suddenly wearing lighter-coloured clothes, and Vaughn is smiling even more frequently than in the past album. The dark-haired woman is around a lot more, and Lisa and Tom seem twice as close with us as they did in the previous album. There are more new people, and it seems as if we suddenly started doing a lot of entertaining, as well as visiting a lot more- camera in hand, one would assume.

We look happy.

We look safe.

I find I am hungry for the next page that shows one of us smiling, or both of us holding hands. I find that Dad is showing up even more often than before, and it is here that he, too, starts to smile. There are a lot of shots of him with me, looking down at me with a pride I had never thought to visibly evoke in him. He is happy with who I am, what I have become, and the choices I have made.

He _loves_ me.

I always knew it, really, but seeing it here, documented proof, suddenly means a whole lot more. What's more is, I can't escape the fact that Vaughn and I are as madly in love as we were in the very first album- perhaps even more so, if in a deeper, more meaningful way. We look connected, now- as if one completes the other.

"A three cord strand," I say, and am startled at my own words. Almost without thinking I grope for a pad of paper that is sitting by the albums, a point-form list of major events in my life jotted down, and flip to a new page. Using the pen that lay beside it, I write down the phrase I just spoke aloud, and examine it. It must mean something to me, but I can't for the life of me figure out what it is. "I don't suppose," I tease Francie, "that _you_ could tell me?"

She looks at me with mystification, but ignores me, and bathes a paw. I smile.

"I never thought I'd get a cat," I tell her, "but look at you. You're just all sass. You look like you could talk your way out of a room full of armed neo-fascist - er - sorry," I hasten, as she looks bewildered, "dogs, or something, and- and then go home and have a nice salmon, or something. As if it didn't even ruffle you. You're like me. Except- except after a while, I got ruffled."

She doesn't care, really, but I think she might if she actually knew what I was talking about. I smile, and return to the albums.

It is toward the end of the thirteenth that my face is starting to fill out, and am gaining more generous curves than I used to have. I have gained a small belly as I open the fourteenth, and I get steadily fatter from there on in. I am very much in labour when the last few pictures in the second-last are taken, and I assume Dad must have come to the hospital with us in the role of official photographer, because Vaughn is in every single picture with me, looking torn between concern and wild elation. I am smiling at the camera in half the pictures and making threatening gestures at it in the other half, my face contorted with the discomfort that steadily increased as the night wore on. I did not, apparently, get a chance to make good my threats before I was whisked away to deliver my child, Vaughn with me, leaving Dad in the waiting room- as the next nine or ten pictures attest.

They are mostly of other people all rumpled and unshorn, obviously in the same boat as Dad, but a few of them are of my father himself, looking as human as I have ever known him to be. He is wearing faded jeans and a raggedy sweatshirt that says Princeton on it in faded grey lettering. I figure it must have been a garage sale collectible, since my father was a Yale man. He looks anxious, but not overly distraught- I think it's the waiting that must be getting to him, since my father was never a patient man. And we were making him wait.

I giggle at the thought of him lecturing Emily on consideration for others once she has been wrapped in a soft pink blanket, and laid in one of those teeny glass bassinets.

"I was trying my best, young lady," he would say gravely, "and I expected only the same amount of effort from you. And don't even get me started on your mother- I'm going to have a talk with her once we're done here. This was very hard on me, and I expect that you will do your utmost in the future to see that I no longer am kept hanging like this. Right? Very good, then. That will be all."

In the front page of the fifteenth album is an eight by ten of me lying in a hospital bed wearing a blue hospital gown that does nothing for my complexion, but is more than compensated for by the radiant smile on my face. I am holding a tiny bundle of new person, and Vaughn is looking down at us as if he might burst any second, so perfect have we two made his life.

He loves us. He loves Emily, of course, but- there, written in his face, is also another, scarier declaration. He loves me. He has loved me for a long time- maybe even as long as I can remember, though of course I wouldn't have known it at the time.

Is it possible?

Could he have loved me without me realising it?

Yes, he could. Because, I see now, I did too.

O0O0O

I am just finishing the album when Vaughn comes downstairs, tousled and sleepy, looking as if he just got out of bed, and for just an instant making me want to take him right back to it. I shake the thought off quickly, and smile.

"Morning, Michael."

He yawns, and nods. Then he does a double take. "Michael?"

"Sure," I say, feeling self-conscious, but not enough to back down. "It's your name, isn't it?"

He smiles at me. "Yeah. It is."

"So- want some breakfast?" I wonder, getting to my feet and stretching. "I just had a croissant and some coffee, but if you aren't too pressed for time, I could probably do something a bit more ambitious."

"No, I'm not," he smiles, "but don't bother. I'll just have toast, and maybe some juice. So you finished the albums, did you? What do you think?"

I look at him, and wonder what sort of answer he is expecting. Certainly not the one that springs to my lips, and is permitted to find its way out into the world before I am even fully conscious of its significance.

"I think I love you."

He gets very quiet, and serious.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." I nod, and even I can barely hear my answer. "Yes, I- I love you. Don't I, Michael." And it isn't a question.

"Yeah." He nods. "Yeah, you- you do."

He is walking towards me, but I don't realise it until he is right in front of me, looking down. Were his eyes always that green? How could I have not noticed those eyes? How could I have missed seeing everything that lay behind them- that is being shouted now at top volume, although there is such a hush in the room, you could have heard a mosquito sneeze.

He is leaning down, bringing his face closer to mine, and I can feel my eyes closing as I thank Heaven I'm sitting down, because from the waist down I am turning into jelly, when Emily fusses politely, and we jump apart as if we were doing something wrong.

"I-" I stammer, "I had- I had better get you some breakfast."

"No, no, that's fine," he reassures me. "Um- why don't you come in with me while I get my toast ready, and we can- we can talk about Thursday, and what we're going to do, all right?"

"Sure. Just what _is_ Thursday, anyway? I mean, this makes the third time it's been mentioned."

"It's a barbecue," he explains as I shoulder Emily and follow him into the kitchen, where he gets out the bread, "the Gavins' annual barbecue. They invite all of their friends, and we eat too much and watch other people drink too much. It's more fun than it sounds," he promises, popping two slices into the toaster. "There are always nearly as many kids there as adults, and you never fail to end up in some corner telling them stories about a lady secret agent who fell in love with another agent, married him, and lived happily ever after. They love it, and they can't get enough."

"Well, it's nice to know I keep busy somehow," I smile.

"You're the most regular volunteer in the church nursery," he agrees. "The babies love you. Actually, I think you're on for this week, though of course if you don't feel well enough-"

"No," I interrupt him, "I think- just because I don't really remember going to church, that maybe- maybe this week it would be best if I just stuck to the nursery. If that's okay?"

"Of course it is," he smiles, pouring out a glass of orange juice. "I understand. Now, what do you want to do today? Go out, or stay in?"

I think.

"Go out," I decide finally. This town- it's beautiful. I love it here. And I was wondering- maybe if I went back to the bridge that I fell from, I might- I might remember something more. Do you think? You know, just- just being there, and seeing it . . ." I trail off.

"It's worth a try," Vaughn agrees. "The bridge is actually at the swan pond- the place where we spend our anniversary. It's not high, but there are enough rocks beneath it that it's high enough."

I shiver.

"Oh, goody."

O0O0O

The sun is shining again today, and there is an added humidity in the air that beads my forehead with perspiration, even though we only walk about a kilometre to get to the swan pond. Vaughn is pushing Emily's stroller, giving me more time to look around me at the town.

It is, as I said before, beautiful. The trees on our street cast an abundance of sun-spotted shade on the pavement, and there is the soft rustle of wind through the leaves that can only mean summer is here. I tilt my head back to scan the cloudless sky, and wipe at my brow.

"Is it always this sticky?"

"No," he smiles, as we pause at the intersection on Main and Bridge, and wait for the walk light to our right to illuminate. "It's usually pretty cool. We might be in for a storm some time next week, if this keeps up. Do you mind it?"

"No- I'm from LA, remember?" I grin. "I've seen worse than this."

He nods, smiling, and then points as we come around a wide corner onto a stretch of shaded Main Street.

"There's the swan pond. The bridge is hidden by those trees, but you'll see it soon enough."

How right he is.

A rather sharply-arcing salmon brick structure, with a creek about six or seven feet wide running beneath it, soon comes into view. There are more rocks than water on the side closest to us, but the large pond situated on the other side suggests a greater abundance of water on the side opposite to us than that which we are facing. I don't recognise it in the way you would recognise a familiar landmark. Rather, I am irrationally terrified that if I go back up onto that bridge again, I will lose whatever memory there is that remains to me. Vaughn seems to know that, because he puts his arm around me- a gesture I find oddly, if reassuringly, comforting.

"Come on," he says gently, when he feels me tense up, "it's just a bridge, okay? There's nobody on it, and nothing about it that's going to hurt you. It's just a bridge."

I nod, clenching my teeth together when they threaten to chatter.

"You all right?" he checks, as we draw closer, and I nod. "Good. Let's go."

It's actually not very high at all, but it _is_ high enough to warrant the four feet of brick wall on either side of us. I peek over this, down at the rocks and gently bubbling water below. I smell the water, and plant life, and maybe just a hint of fish. I see rocks that look rather small - small enough to hold in my hand - but apparently are big enough to wipe out five years' worth of one woman's life so it is, to her, as if it had never even happened.

I feel cold shivers rack my body, and Vaughn is at once holding me tightly.

"Sydney, Sydney," he is saying urgently, "Sydney, listen to me- take deep breaths, all right? Slow, deep breaths. That's it. Bend over, like this, and- that's it. Slow, deep . . . There's a girl," he soothes, and the shivers slow.

He gives me a minute to recover before he asks softly, "Syd, were you remembering something?"

I shake my head. "No. Not- not really. Just- just what I saw before. The rocks, rushing up at me, and- there's something else, though. I twisted myself around. So I would land on my back. Because I knew if I landed on my face and knocked myself out, I would have drowned. So I flipped over, to land on my back, as soon as I went over head first. And then I hit my head on a rock, and- and that's it."

"That's it for now," he corrects me, helping me straighten up. "But there's going to be more, Sydney. Sooner or later, there'll be more."

"Sooner, I hope," I grumble.

"Well," he says thoughtfully, "how about when you twisted around? Did you see anybody looking down at you? A face you knew? Or even didn't know, but still saw clearly enough to maybe identify him?"

I think hard. I see the sky, as it takes the place of the rocks, and maybe the edge of the bridge, and- black. But right before the black, was there a slight smudge at the edge of my vision? A creamy, dark-topped smudge that might have been a head, or is it just my overactive imagination, worn out from the strain of trying to reclaim what should, by rights, be mine? I can't tell, so I simply shake my head.

"No. I don't- I don't think so. It's just- it's all so muddled. It's as if those memories were- I don't know. Stolen. It isn't that I can't make sense of them- they just aren't there."

"So," he verifies, as we make our way down from the bridge, and walk over to sit on a bench near the pond, "you can't remember anything at all between the time you were with your mother, and when you were pushed from the bridge. Is that right?"

"Yes."

"Well, what's the last thing you remember about being with your mother? The last phrase, face, or whatever?"

I concentrate.

"She had come in, and I- I was devastated. I mean, wouldn't you be? It's one thing to learn your mother ran off to live her real life - that you were never a part of it anyway - but totally another to find she's been working against you."

Vaughn nods, listening. I go on.

"Well, she- she said a bunch of stuff that really didn't compute, if you know what I mean. Not nasty stuff, or mocking, but not emotional, either. Just- dead. In a monotone. I wanted to think it was because she didn't trust herself not to break down, but- but I really couldn't make myself believe that. Because of the things she was saying. Horrible things. Like, I wasn't going to be killed, I just had to co-operate, and maybe in a year or so I would get to leave. She was going to keep me, Michael. Not in that room, but- she was going to keep me a prisoner for a long time. I wouldn't see Dad, or Francie, or Will, or- or you. I- I felt sick. I _was_ sick- all over the floor. Then she left, and I- I just broke down. I cried, and cried, and cried. I was such a mess, and so tired, that once I couldn't cry anymore, I fell asleep. Then there's this sort of smudge of color there, and maybe a few faces, and the bridge. That's it."

"What do you have in there," he jokes, "a slideshow?"

I smile faintly.

"Something like that. It's like watching a movie. Only a whole chunk of it is missing."

He smiles, and takes my hand.

"Maybe I can fill in a bit of that," he suggests.

"Be my guest." I shrug, and so he begins.

"Your father and I met up once I had crawled through the vent, and dropped down into the hallway where he was. Where you had been. He wanted to know where you were- he was desperate, Sydney. Until that moment, I'd never seen the really human side of him. The side he keeps you on. But with you gone, it was like that whole side had been pulled out, into full view. He nearly broke down when I told him what had happened, and then- he put it away. The soft side. He put the mask back on, and took me out to the car. Will was bleeding all over the upholstery, and your father didn't even care anymore- not about Will, I mean, but the upholstery. Back in the hallway he'd made a comment about the bloodstains setting in, but by the time we reached the car, he was so scared for you and that mask was so tightly in place again that we could have blown up the car and he wouldn't have noticed. And Will- Will wanted to know who I was."

"What did you say?"

"I said no. See, what he actually said was 'Are you my mother?' since Jack gave him a pretty large dose of some black market painkiller, and he was pretty spaced out by the time I saw him."

I blink back a wet smile at the thought of Will doped up on Asian drugs, and nod for him to go on.

"Well, it turns out that your father had bugged you. He'd planted some sort of tracking device on you - right by your hairline, we found out later - and he used that to find this huge warehouse complex that your mother had you stashed in. I knew that Jack was going to want to go in after you as badly as I did, so I was out of the car and explaining that he was already behind the wheel before he could even get his seatbelt off."

I picture Dad's likely reaction to this, and smother a grin.

"I wasn't sure how I was going to find you, since I'd left the tracking device with your father, but I was quite prepared to rip the whole building apart to find you. As it turned out, I didn't have to, since your mother was about to transport you elsewhere. She had a van waiting at the door, and you were being led out when I found you. I knocked out the guy who was with you, and when I tried to take your blindfold off, you punched me."

"Did I?" I blush. "I'm sorry."

"I don't blame you," he reassures me. "You didn't know who I was."

"What did I do when I found out?"

He grins. "You sort of gaped at me for a minute, then you shook yourself, and said 'Well, what are you waiting for? Let's get out of here!'"

"Did we?"

"Yeah. We reached the car, and your father didn't even wait for the door to close before we were gone."

"What- what did he say when I told him who The Man was?"

"He said 'I know'."

"He said _what_?!"

"Well, it turns out that your mother was watching the whole rescue from a window above the door. Your father saw her. She had a gun. She was pointing it at us the whole time and we didn't even know it."

"Why didn't she shoot?"

"I'm not sure," he says honestly. "You- you wondered later if maybe she had been covering us."

"Covering us? Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, she came to our wedding, didn't she? She really does love you, Sydney. In her own, twisted, anti-democratic way."

"Thanks," I mumble, burying my face in my hands. "Oh man, Vaughn, this is all a bit much to take in this quickly."

"I know, Sydney, and I'm sorry if I've been pushing it. I just keep hoping that something will trigger your memory- some phrase, or name, or something."

"I wish it did. I mean, right up until I fell asleep in that chair, I can remember every little detail. Do you know, I wore one white sock and one grey on my first day of kindergarten?"

"No," he says, amused, "I didn't."

"Well, I did. And I had a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich, because I didn't like jam, and twenty cents for milk, and that morning my mother taught me how to say good bye in Russian."

"Really?"

"Yeah. She knew how to speak it, of course, but she'd also studied it at University, so nobody would be suspicious, I guess, if she slipped up some time and spoke it. She could always say she was just practicing, you know?"

Vaughn nodded.

"My teacher's name was Miss Kimball." I go on, all the while marveling at how easily this all came out. "She was really pretty, with blonde curls and these big, gold earrings I loved to look at. I told my mom I wanted to get a pair of earrings like that, but she said that jewelry was tacky on children. And she was right, of course," I admit, "but I sure didn't see it that way at the time."

"She sounds like a walking contradiction," Vaughn marvels. "A Communist Prep, if I need to sum it up in two words."

In spite of myself, I giggle. "You know, you're right. That's exactly what she was. Unless," my face clouds over, "that was just an act as well."

Vaughn looks at me with concern.

"Come on," he says at last, "let's go home."

O0O0O

Home is not exactly where we go. Not at first, anyway.

Instead, he takes me home the long way, through a beautiful waterfowl park that, apparently, Sackville is famous for. It's comprised of shaded gravel paths and wooden boardwalks winding over an expanse of marsh, filled with ducks, geese, and other life avis in form.

The humidity is not as prominent here, since it's cooler right above the water, and the sounds of several songbirds trilling happily away soothes my ragged nerves. By the time we leave the park, emerging onto a narrow house- and tree-lined street that takes us to our own street, I am almost calm, and am leaning, ever-so-slightly, against Vaughn.

The house is cool and welcoming when we enter, and Donovan comes rocketing around a corner, nails scrabbling on the floor, sending a rag rug flying in his haste to greet us effusively. "Were we gone that long?" I wonder, bending over to let him scour my face before I turn to free Emily from her stroller.

"Nah," Vaughn shrugs, scooping up an armful of well-muscled dog that struggles to kiss all of him at once, "he just thinks we were, is all."

"I see," I smile, leaning over to let our pet give me one last slobbery kiss before I carry Emily through to the kitchen, and settle her down into the bassinet. "Mm, I'm starving. How does lunch sound to you?"

"Like a really good plan," he promises, following, Donovan still held more or less securely to his chest. Of course, with a dog that's built like a miniature tank, it doesn't matter that much if he _isn't_ held securely, because the only thing the fall would damage is the floor.

"Fine, then. Sandwiches? And- what have we got to drink?"

While I rummage, Vaughn brings up the topic of this Thursday's barbecue.

"You're sure you're up to going?"

"Michael, I'm not made of glass. I really want to get back into things- do we have anything else planned that I should know about?"

"Well, there's a year-end concert at the school that you and Jack usually come to. I'm helping the music teacher- my kids really don't like her, and she needs me to kind of keep them in line."

"That sounds like fun. When is it?"

"Tonight. I was going to cancel, but if you really think you're up to it . . ."

"I am, Michael, I promise I am." His name still sounds strange to me, but I am determined to get used to it.

"Fine. I'll call Rachel and let her know she's off the hook. She'll be glad- she wanted to sit with her family anyway."

"Rachel?"

"Rachel Wallace, she's another teacher. She lives out of town, so she's not as good a friend of ours as she might have been otherwise, but she's really nice. You two get along, and her kids love Emily."

"How many?"

"Kids? Two. Boy and a girl. Do you want some help?"

"No, you have dog slobber all over your hands." I slice a tomato. "Tell me more. Who else do you work with?"

"Well, there are four other fifth grade classes, and two of those are the French immersion program. I have a grade five homeroom, a grade five English class, and three grade five math classes."

"No Sex Ed.?" I ask bravely, and he laughs.

"No, that was Kathy's class. You and Kathy are pretty good friends, and you said you wouldn't mind coming in. Kathy goes to our church," he adds, "as well as Louise and George."

"I see. Do we- do we happen to have any pictures of these people?"

"Yeah. Just a second."

He digs around in the hall cupboard and comes up with a small booklet that, I see, is a middle school yearbook. In the front are about twenty teachers, plus a principal and vice principal, of whom Vaughn is one.

"That's Rachel," he points to a grinning woman with dark hair, "that's Kathy," he goes on, gesturing to a thin, cheery-looking elderly woman, "and Louise, and Jim." The last two are a stout, middle-aged woman, and an older, balding man with a Santa Claus smile.

"They look nice."

"They are. They all are, really."

He 'introduces' me to the rest of the teachers- a whole new chapter in my life, which makes me wonder just how many there are.

Lives, I am finding out, have many different dimensions to them. There are the family members and close friends, like you have in your photo albums, and that's the first dimension. Then there are the other friends, who aren't as close, so you don't take pictures of them - or at least, very many pictures - but should still, realistically, know their names when they say hello to you.

Of course you also have people like your doctor, and hairdresser, and I guess your mailman, or whoever- people you don't have in your album, necessarily, but still see quite a bit of fairly regularly, and so you shouldn't look bewildered when they address you on the street.

Then there are the bare acquaintances, and the enemies, and the friends' children, and a whole lot of other stuff that really messes you up when you're dumped headfirst into it, with only a husband and a father to hang onto. Granted, a very loving husband and an extremely supportive father, but still, you'll look a little strange if you keep asking one or the other who somebody is for the rest of your life.

So Vaughn, at my request, tries to help me through sections of each of these dimensions over grilled tomato sandwiches and cold milk (it comes, apparently, from the dairy farm only a kilometre or two away, and I have to admit, I've never tasted better milk in my life).

Of course, five years is far too great a span of time to relate over lunch, so we have to adjourn to the living room to continue our discussion. I have just learned that Lisa's Dobermans all love Francie to pieces, and she's forgiven them for introducing themselves by chasing her, snarling, through our house while we were moving in, when Emily fusses to be fed, and almost unconsciously I rearrange the necessary articles of clothing to comply.

Vaughn is, of course, so accustomed to this that he doesn't even react, and I am raising Emily to her meal when I realise exactly how much I am displaying to a man I can't even remember dating, let alone marrying, and having a child with. My cheeks flame red, which he does notice, and he hastily looks away.

"Sydney. I'm sorry, I didn't even- I'm just so used to-"

"I know, I know," I mutter, covering up as best I can, and provoking hungry squalls from my daughter, "it isn't your fault. I- I wasn't even thinking. It was reflex. It was what I would have done normally, wasn't it?"

"Yes," he admits, turning back to face me, "it was. It is. And you don't have to be embarrassed about it. It's your right to be, of course," he corrects himself quickly, "but you don't need to be. I- I won't rush you, if you want, or-or don't, I- I- listen to me, Sydney, I'm stuttering!"

I laugh in spite of myself, and the tension I feel.

"I take it you don't do that often."

"Only when I'm around you," he smiles, and I feel my stomach getting all melty.

"Oh." Is all I can manage.

Those eyes. It's those eyes that really get to me. He looks a lot like me in his eyes- sad, and worried. I always looked sad and worried back when we first knew each other. So did he. I guess we're a good match. Only now, as well as a little worried, he suddenly seems incredibly good looking to me. I mean, a 'why didn't I see it before now?' kind of good looking.

And I love him. I think all at once that, even if I won't ever remember anything else, that's fine. Because I can remember that much, and that's enough.

"I can do this." I hear myself saying, as I re-position Emily.

"You're sure? Sydney, I want you to know I would never expect you to do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable in any way, or-"

"No, Vaughn, I'm sure. I mean," I manage a quivery smile, "it's nothing neither of us haven't seen before, am I right?"

He smiles in spite of himself, and agrees. So Emily feeds greedily as he continues to talk, telling me all sorts of things about our life here- the one I can't remember, but know all the same that I am desperately glad I am sharing with him. Eventually, I swing the topic around to something painful, but something that demands closure for me.

"Vaughn, you said- Will. I mean, when I said- I don't know why I said that, about chopping my head off, but I wasn't consciously thinking about Will. Subconsciously, maybe, but I had no idea that was how he- how he died."

"Sydney, I'm not sure we should-"

"No, but I am. He's my- he was my friend. I mean, I know he wanted to be more, but- but he was a really, really good friend and I loved him as one. So- I need to know, Vaughn. I need to know exactly what I did to him."

"Sydney, you didn't do anything to him. This was in no way your fault."

"Don't you give me that," I say, and my voice is low and dangerous. "I may not have swung the axe, Michael, but I was just as guilty as if I'd lopped his head off myself. I know it. Sloane didn't kill him for fun, did he?"

"No." Vaughn agrees softly, "he didn't. But neither did you kill him at all. Yes, Sydney, you were involved in a lot of dangerous things that probably inadvertently caused the deaths of many people- not just Will. Yes, you had a horrible, messed-up lie of a life, and yes, it did ruin things for a lot of people around you. But Sloane was responsible for Will's death, and Will was responsible for the events that led up to it. So don't you dare blame yourself. Now, what do you want to know?"

I take a deep breath, and blink back tears.

"Everything. I want to know everything."

O0O0O

__

"Hi, Michael, look, can we make this quick? I had to slip out the back door of a movie theater so Francie wouldn't notice that Joey's Pizza now has my pager number. Was it really necessary to contact me like that? I mean, I know we're still trying to be careful, but-"

"Sydney." (Why do you have to be so happy right now? And why do I have to be the one to change that?)

Silence. Then,

"What is it?" (And don't even think about saying 'nothing' because Buddy, I can read you like a book.)

Silence.

"Michael. I can see it in your face, there's something wrong. What is it?! Tell me what it is, Mike, now!"

A deep, shaky sigh. The sigh of somebody who hates to be the one who knows, and has to tell.

"It- it's Will."

Eyes wide. A step back. Head shaking back and forth, back and forth, no, no, no . . .

Saying "No, no, no . . ."

Nodding, because it's yes, not no, and now the world is tilting sideways on a horribly wrong axis because feet are sliding out from under the usually capable body they are supposed to support, and the body - that suddenly looks so fragile to him - is crashing to the ground . . .

Only it's caught in arms that can snap a man's neck in two, but are gentle - so gentle - with the precious person they are holding.

"Sydney, I'm sorry." (You can never know how very, very, very sorry . . .)

"How?"

This is going to hurt. But the demand in the big, brown eyes will only increase with each second that passes, so he answers.

"An axe. Some third-rate hit man, doesn't have a clue about SD-6 or any Will Tippin. Thinks this is all some gigantic hoax, or- or a nightmare."

"He's right about that. Anything- anything else?" (Please say no. Please, please, say no . . .)

"No" (Yes. He was tortured both before and after death, and the final blow with the axe was just a mercy swat. Sloane was mad , Sydney, really mad, when he ordered this, and Will was just his punching bag for the day, even though he himself never landed a single blow, but I won't tell you that. Any of it. I won't do that. I CAN'T

_do that. Not to you.)_

O0O0O

I wanted to know, but now that I do I wish that I didn't. I'm crying, and I don't even realise at first that Vaughn is holding me with only half of my shirt done up and rather personal things in plain view.

When I do realise it, I button up quickly, but I don't really care. It's a stupid, senseless motion that has no meaning for me right now. But I do it anyway, because I have to do something. If I don't, I'll do something I'll regret later on . . .

"When, exactly, did this happen?" I ask quietly, "and how close did he get, in the end?"

"This happened two days after the SD-6 takedown. I paged you as Joey's Pizza because I wanted to get you there quickly- I didn't want you to hear it on the news first. In the end, Will found out everything, but that was months before we demolished the whole organization. Sloane was just looking somebody to blame who wouldn't react fast enough to hit back, and he chose Will."

I think I am going to be sick.

"You mean, if I hadn't been so capable, he might have come after me?"

"Well- yeah. I guess. Or your father. But-"

He doesn't have to finish. Anybody who knows what my father is capable of knows it would be suicide, at the very least, to try to take him on with any less than a small militia group.

"So, Will died because I'm too strong, is that it?" I mumble. "Because Sloane wanted revenge on me somehow before he disappeared completely, and Will was the easiest way to get it? That's sick, Vaughn! I mean it. That's just sick!"

"Was there really ever a time after he had Danny killed that you thought he wasn't?" Vaughn asks me gently, choosing not to linger over my return to his surname. I refuse to look at him, so he takes my hands in one of his, and uses the other to gently swing my chin back around so I am looking at him.

"Sydney, listen to me."

My eyes drop, and he yells, "_Listen to me_!" Emily starts to cry, and I look up, startled, in spite of myself. He sighs- a deep, shaky sigh.

"Look, Syd, I want to get something straight here. Sloane was a maniac. Okay? He knowingly got himself involved with murderers, and he became one of them. He involved your father, Sydney, and then he used you. He manipulated and controlled you, he lied to you and he pretended that he actually cared about you. He didn't, Sydney. The only things Sloane ever cared about were himself, and his precious Alliance, and maybe, just maybe, his wife. You were just a tool to him- an instrument that could be instructed to do things that he himself was not able to do. He danced you and Dixon and hundreds just like you as if you were puppets, until you found out what was going on, and cut the strings.

"The man was a psychopath, and it was this that allowed him to give the command to end Danny's life, and the same one that ended Will's. You, Sydney, had nothing to do with it. Do you get that? Yes, you happened to be very good friends with Will, but if he hadn't known you, I still believe he would have somehow found out anyway. SD-6 was a time bomb, Sydney, and a good reporter like Will would be bound to have stumbled across it sooner or later. So don't blame yourself. I won't let you. Do you hear me? _I won't let you_."

I take a deep breath.

"You- you're sure? That I had-"

"Nothing to do with it whatsoever, Sydney," Vaughn promises. "You're the victim here, Sydney. Sloane is the criminal. You did nothing but try and stop him."

"And in the end, I couldn't even do that," I mutter.

"You don't know that," Vaughn says firmly. "This isn't the end, Sydney. The end is when we stop breathing. Or, rather, it's the beginning. Remind me to let you read Revelation sometime soon . . ."

"Thanks," I manage, "I've read it. But you were saying-?"

"Sorry," he smiles. "I was saying that until we do stop breathing, you still have a chance to get Sloane. And if it really was him that Lisa saw, I plan to help you get him. And we will, Sydney. In the end, I really feel that we will."

I look up hopefully. "Promise?"

I shouldn't ask that of him. I know it, and I think he knows it to, but the man smiles bravely, covers my hands with his, and nods.

"Promise. Now, let's see what we'll need in order to get ready for the concert tonight, all right? If today was anything to judge by, it's going to be boiling in that gymnasium, and I don't want to faint before I get the kids up on the stage."

So I tuck my hand in his, scoop Emily up with my free arm, and accompany him up to our bedroom to see what our closet has to offer.

O0O0O

The gymnasium _is_ boiling, and all of the parents seated therein are all but stripped down to the skin- they're certainly soaked to it.

A perspiring principal with a wilting hairdo gets up, and addresses us in a reedy, wavering voice. She explains that, due to the heat, the children are taking a bit longer to get ready than was originally anticipated, but that they hope to be no more than half an hour behind the initial schedule. In the meantime, we are welcome to help ourselves to some of the crushed ice that has been provided, and chat with our neighbors while everybody struggles to set up.

I run an ice chip along Emily's sticky arms and legs, and blow on her to try and deal with most of the perspiration. I'd brought her in the lightest undershirt I could find, but in the end stripped that off as well, so now she's wearing nothing but a diaper. I find that I am envying her as I am approached by a plump, perspiring blonde who is in turn tailed by a sweaty, vague-looking man. The man looks on as the blonde woman greets me cordially.

"Isn't this terrible, Sydney?" she asks softly, with the artificially horrified air of one who knows she will be agreed with no matter what. "This heat is just murder! Poor Patrick wanted to wear nothing but his boxers, but of course I told him that was far from appropriate."

"Of course," I say faintly, wondering if I could pass the heat off as an excuse for my having not the faintest clue who she is.

"And look, you've brought Emily," she smiles, touching the flushed cheek. "She must be all but suffocating in here. I suppose if it weren't so humid outside, you could take her out there, but as it is, she must really be better off in here."

"Mm," I agree, and use the tiny undershirt to swipe at my forehead. "So- is your, um, whole family here?"

"No, I left the girls at home with a sitter. We, at least, have central air. But Jason and I both came, because of course Patrick couldn't miss this, and neither Jason nor I really wanted to, despite this devastating heat. They say we're in for some heavy rains no later than- oh, hello, there, Mr. Vaughn! And how is my boy behaving himself?"

"Patrick's doing fine, Debbie," he smiles, and I am sure that he intentionally says her name because he knows I am desperately wondering what it is. "I just came to ask Sydney if she wanted me to find a sitter for Emily. I don't like her to be here in this heat- I don't like either of you to be here in this heat," he adds, frowning, "so if you wanted to take her home-"

"I'm fine, really," I insist, "though I wouldn't say no to a really good sitter, if you could get one here."

"I thought I saw one in particular," he smiles, "hovering around the door back there. Do you want to ask him, or should I?"

I look back and see Dad in a tee and shorts, mopping his forehead as he scans the sweating assembled crowd. We make eye contact, and I wave him over.

"Hello, sweetheart, isn't it- oh, hello, Debbie, how are you?"

"I'm quite well, thank you, Jack," she smiles, "except I may very well expire at any moment."

"It _is_ a trifle humid," Dad agrees, and of course such nonchalance is to be expected from one who has frequented such inhospitable climates as those offered in Morocco.

"Jack," Vaughn begins, "Sydney and I were wondering if you might be willing to look after Emily for us tonight, because it's so hot here."

"Of course," he agrees, reaching for Emily. "But I was hoping to stay for your class- they're on first, aren't they? Then we could all go for an ice cream, or something, and take them home then. How does that sound?"

"Fine," Vaughn agrees, "Sure, let's all stay for my class, and then we'll take off, okay? I- oh, hey, Jenna, get your head back in there!" He takes off, running surprisingly quickly considering the heat, to push a dark-haired head back behind gold curtains. Dad, smiling, takes the unoccupied seat to my right, since Debbie and her tag-along have taken up residence in the chairs to my left.

"And how is Patrick, Debbie?" Dad wonders, once he has seated himself. "I heard a rumor about some mice and the ventilation ducts, but of course I didn't like to accept that without verifying it first."

"It was a terrible misunderstanding," Debbie frowns. "Patrick just wanted to make sure that they got enough air. Of course we explained to him that it was not appropriate to - er - ventilate the mice in such a manner, but the school really took it all too seriously, if you know what I mean."

Dad murmurs that he thought he did, and then. when Debbie looks away, blinks his eyes to send a quick message to me.

__

Not seriously enough, if you ask me.

I smother a smile, and pass him another ice chip for Emily.

"Look, now, Dad- it's starting."

It is. A plump, dark-haired woman walks out onto the stage, begs our pardon for her having chosen such an uncomfortable night on which to hold the concert, and asks us to welcome the fifth grade, singing an assortment of Disney hits.

I cannot, of course, ask Debbie which of the fifty-odd boys is hers. Rather, I watch as the thin, balding man on her other side raises his camera, and aims it at a cute, if impish-looking, blonde kid near the back. No sooner has Debbie's husband - Jason, hadn't she said? - snapped the picture, than does their pride and joy reach for the limp ribbon decorating one girl's even more limp curls, and tug it out. She spins to glare and stamp, and he immediately adopts a visage of studied innocence- so studied I can't believe she'll fall for it, but she seems to, turning back around, pouting suspiciously.

"That monkey," Debbie observes indulgently, clucking her tongue. "I hope you didn't get that on camera, Jason, dear."

Jason, dear, mutters that he doesn't think so, but of course he can't be sure, and . . . He trails off when he realises that his wife is no longer listening to him, focusing once more on the display.

They really are quite adorable, if you ignore the fact that hardly a one of them isn't at some point scratching or stomping or sighing when they are supposed to be singing, and that two of them nearly topple down off the stage from the heat. In all, I really feel it is a success, and when Vaughn escapes afterward to meet us, he's not only flushed from the heat, but from his delight at their accomplishment.

"I was sure Caleb was going to kill Josh," he explains, as we drive home with our ice cream cones, "and that Rosie was going to have a fit when she saw that she was in the front row, but- well, it worked out just fine, didn't it?"

"It did," I assure him, as Dad swings into our driveway, and we follow him. "It really did. You must have a lot of fun teaching them."

"It has its rough spots," he smiles, inching past Dad's car and positioning his beside mine. "And don't think there haven't been moments when I contemplated jumping out the window, but really, I enjoy it."

"Mm." I get out, and reach in to free Emily's baby seat from the seat belt. "Oh, poor baby- look, Michael, she's roasting."

"Get her inside," he says, concerned. "I think it was a mistake for us to bring her tonight- that place was an oven."

I agree as I hurry towards the door, which Dad is holding open, so I can feel tongues of deliciously frigid air wafting out from the depths of our home. Donovan and Francie are both waiting impatiently for us, and Dad agrees to spend an hour or so just chatting, finally leaving around ten thirty, when I am unable to smother a monstrous yawn.

"You must still be worn out from all of this," he observes, worried. "I shouldn't have stayed so long- I'll see you both tomorrow, and, of course, the night after that, all right? Which reminds me- what are you bringing?"

"Probably macaroni salad," Vaughn decides. "It's easy, and quick. It'll give me more time with my girls," he adds, smiling at Emily and me.

"Oh, yeah- Thursday's the day after tomorrow, isn't it?" I realise, coming out of a sort of stupor. "Yikes- I'm going to want to go over some faces, then. I'm not sure I can pull this off, but I'm positive I don't want people oozing all over me, trying to get me to remember things."

Dad nods, smiling, and kisses me good night. Then we see him to the door, and watch as he drives away down the darkening street.

"You know," Vaughn points out, as we head upstairs, "we can still cancel on Thursday, if you want. Paul would understand."

"I want to go," I say, determined. "I have to go. I want to act as if nothing has happened. If I do, then maybe my mind will believe it, and give me back whatever I don't have."

He smiles, and watches as I put Emily to bed, a fan aimed just to the side of her crib so she can stay cool but not dehydrate from sleeping directly in the draft. Then I join him in the hallway, and he shuffles his feet uncertainly. It somehow doesn't seem like him, and I am curious.

"Michael? What is it?"

"Well- I know I've slept with you, so to speak, for the past two nights, but we were really out of it, and we aren't tonight, and- and I'll understand if you don't want me to- to, um- be in the same bed with you tonight. I mean, it isn't as if you- you're used to- um-"

I look at him, amused. "You're stuttering again."

"Don't I know it," he mutters. "I don't know how you do it, but you always make me-" He breaks off at the sound of glass shattering downstairs, and I whirl around automatically, both of us tense.

"You heard it?" he asks urgently, and I nod.

"Yes. Was that-"

"The back door."

We exchange glances as we hear another, softer sound, less abrasive than that of moments before, as if the maker of the noise is now trying not to be heard.

"Let's check it out," he says grimly, and, hand in hand, we slip quietly down the stairs.

Donovan, though, gets there before we do.

Barking, slavering and snarling, he hurls himself at an arm that is poking through the hole in the glass, most likely caused by an elbow covered in the towel we find on the floor by the door. The arm retreats rapidly as Donovan leaps for it, as does its owner. Vaughn yanks open the door as spoon as he reaches it, and Donovan goes rocketing out like a fifty-pound cannonball, roaring in a manner that is surprisingly frightening, for all he's only a foot and a half tall. The figure is already halfway across our lawn, though, and disappears into the Bordens' yard. Donovan pursues it as far as the chain link fence, then stops, frustrated, watching the shadowy form get farther and farther away.

Lights come on in the Borden house as other dogs answer Donovan's raging bellows, and I see three large, lean, hostile-looking canines come tearing out the pet door, nearly overtaking the intruder before he vanishes over the other side of the fence, and gets away.

I stand, shaking, as Vaughn slips one arm around me, and we watch as Lisa emerges, blinking, more naked than not in her nightclothes, to yell at her dogs.

"Michael," I say very quietly, as we watch the Dobermans savage the fence our uninvited guest vaulted over moments before, "I think maybe I _would_ like you to sleep with me tonight."

He nods, and, keeping his arm tight around me, whistles for a frustrated Donovan, and leads me back into our house. But neither of us get much sleep, because even though neither of us want to say it aloud, we both saw that the figure, for all that it moved too quickly for Donovan to catch it, ran with a decided limp.

I turn the light on, and leave it on until the sun comes up.

O0O0O

O0O0O

Well, that's it for this part, and, due to my inability to wrap things up quickly enough, there might actually be two more parts to come, but I haven't decided for sure yet. There will, of course, be at least one more, and I promise that not only will I be officially introducing Lisa, but that there will also be much more action- watch for it!

I also wanted to mention that, since I am not an American, my spelling of certain words might not seem correct to those of you who are. I set my MS Word program to American spelling for this fic and it does its best to catch me, and for the most part I've edited everything, but I've added some words to my dictionary that you might see as being spelled wrong. Well, they aren't. Not to me, anyway, so if you get confused by 'realise' or 'colour', or something like that, that's the reason why.

Disclaimers are in the first chapter, and they'll be in the last chapter, too, whenever that happens.

Have I missed anything? Let me know. And keep reading!


	3. Chapter Three

O0O0O

_He breaks off at the sound of glass shattering downstairs, and I whirl around automatically, both of us tense._

_"You heard it?" he asks urgently, and I nod._

_"Yes. Was that-"_

_"The back door."_

_We exchange glances as we hear another, softer sound, less abrasive than that of moments before, as if the maker of the noise is now trying not to be heard._

_"Let's check it out," he says grimly, and, hand in hand, we slip quietly down the stairs._

_Donovan, though, gets there before we do._

_Barking, slavering and snarling, he hurls himself at an arm that is poking through the hole in the glass, most likely caused by an elbow covered in the towel we find on the floor by the door. The arm retreats rapidly as Donovan leaps for it, as does its owner. Vaughn yanks open the door as spoon as he reaches it, and Donovan goes rocketing out like a fifty-pound cannonball, roaring in a manner that is surprisingly frightening, for all he's only a foot and a half tall. The figure is already halfway across our lawn, though, and disappears into the Bordens' yard. Donovan pursues it as far as the chain link fence, then stops, frustrated, watching the shadowy form get farther and farther away._

_Lights come on in the Borden house as other dogs answer Donovan's raging bellows, and I see three large, lean, hostile-looking canines come tearing out the pet door, nearly overtaking the intruder before he vanishes over the other side of the fence, and gets away._

_I stand, shaking, as Vaughn slips one arm around me, and we watch as Lisa emerges, blinking, more naked than not in her nightclothes, to yell at her dogs._

_"Michael," I say very quietly, as we watch the Dobermans savage the fence our uninvited guest vaulted over moments before, "I think maybe I would like you to sleep with me tonight."_

_He nods, and, keeping his arm tight around me, whistles for a frustrated Donovan, and leads me back into our house. But neither of us get much sleep, because even though neither of us want to say it aloud, we both saw that the figure, for all that it moved too quickly for Donovan to catch it, ran with a decided limp._

_I turn the light on, and leave it on until the sun comes up._

_._

O0O0O

Morning is basically nonexistent for me, since I sleep through it, and so does Vaughn. I wake up to find him beside me, sitting up, holding a quietly fussing Emily to him. He doesn't see that I am awake, so I take this opportunity to take a really good, long look at both of them.

Emily is beautiful. Have I said that already? Well, she really, truly is. And I'm not just saying that because I'm her mother- she is one of the most exquisite little babies I've ever laid eyes on, with a perfectly-featured little face, exquisitely miniaturized appendages, and those deep, soulful brown eyes that take in the world with gleeful awe.

My husband is no less fantastic to look at, and I promise you I am not just saying that because I married him. True, he's rumpled and unshaven, and wearing raggedy old Harvard sweats, but I am sure he could not possibly look better to me than he does at this moment. His eyes are a deep, grey-green, and he is looking at Emily as if he still can't quite believe he helped to create her.

I can identify with the feeling.

He's speaking to her as he holds her, trying to hush her fussy little whines. I listen to his very serious, one-sided dialogue, and try not to smile outright at what I hear.

"You need to be quiet, sweetheart, yes, you do. Very quiet, because Mommy is very tired right now, since Mommy and Daddy were both a little scared last night when a nasty old man tried to get into the house. Don't worry, because Donovan got rid of him, but of course we were still a little nervous after he was gone.

"Mommies and Daddies get scared too, sometimes, you know, Emily. But please try to forget I said that by the time you turn three, because you're going to want to think of us as invincible, and anything we can do to help the image would be great.

"And really, you don't have to worry about being safe. Because even though your Mommy and Daddy get scared, they can also take care of themselves, and you, too. Especially your mommy. She can kick some major butt if she puts her mind to it, and someday, when you're a big girl, she'll teach you how to do it, too."

I smile, stretch, and speak lazily to him.

"She's going to hold me to that, you know, Honey."

"I haven't a doubt," he smiles, and without thinking, leans down to brush a kiss across my lips. It feels so good - so right - that I don't even react to it. Except maybe my heart rate accelerates a bit . . .

"Good morning, Sweetheart," he says to me, and I feel a tingle of delight race through me from head to toe at the words.

"Good morning. Is Her Highness hungry?"

"She could use something to eat, I think, and maybe a change after that. She got me up about an hour ago- I didn't want her to wake you as well, so I changed her in there before I brought her in."

I nod, and take her from him, positioning her under the old tee I wore to bed the night before. While she eats, I bring up a question I'd meant to ask him yesterday.

"When I was going through the album, this phrase popped into my head, and I thought that maybe you could tell me if it meant anything in particular to us."

"Sure- what was it?"

"I'm not positive - I wrote it down so I'd be able to be sure - but I think it was something like 'a three-cord strand'. It seemed a little weird, and- what is it?"

He's looking at me, half amused, half startled.

"It's part of a quote from the Bible," he explains. "It goes 'Who can break a three-cord strand?' and it refers to man, wife, and God- the three strands that make up the cord of a strong and successful marriage. What pictures were you looking at when you thought of it?"

I describe as best I can the 'happy' point in the albums, when we suddenly seem much closer, and considerably lightened in facial expression, and Vaughn nods.

"Yeah, that would be about when we accepted Christ. It was amazing, Sydney- like a really bright light turned on in a room that had been dark our entire lives. That's how we both put it. I mean, it doesn't automatically solve your problems for you, or anything, but it makes it a whole lot easier to get a proper perspective on them."

I smiled, settling back against the headboard, and transferring Emily to greener pastures as I reflect aloud on his words.

"I always used to think that people who talked about God like that were - well - not lying, maybe, but exaggerating. And I just couldn't believe the ones who said it fixed everything."

"You shouldn't," he reassures me. "It doesn't. But it opens up a direct line of communication to the handyman, if you know what I mean. And He can talk you through anything."

"See, if somebody had put it like that a whole ago, then maybe I would have turned out a lot differently," I muse. "That makes it sound - well - plausible. Not a solve-all, or a quick fix, but- a foundation. To start to build a really strong life on. You know?"

Vaughn smiles, and says he knows exactly.

"Now, Emily's had her pick-me-up, but I still want mine," he smiles, "so what do you say we call the police to come deal with the gaping hole in our back door, and then fix ourselves some coffee while we wait for them?"

O0O0O

Two beakers of coffee later, we both agree that we feel much more human, and he wants to know whether I want first or second dibs on the shower. I decide first, after some consideration, and leave him with Emily while I go select some clothes, and give myself a thorough scrub-down.

I feel as if I'm washing off all the events of last night, and so continue to scour away at my skin with the puff until I'm red and tingly all over. Then I rinse down, dry off, and get dressed.

I tell you, it is amazing what one little shower will do for you. A hairbrush and a little lip gloss later, I all but skip out of the bathroom to find Vaughn, Emily, Donovan and Francie welcoming two uniformed police officers.

"Honey, why don't I take it from here?" I suggest perkily, "You need to have a shower. I'll look after our guests."

I tell you, June Cleaver has nothing on me.

"All right," he says, and there is a subtle undercurrent to his tone. "Greg and Carl, she's all yours."

He tips his head slightly to indicate which is which, and I guess rightly that this means we at least know them well enough to be informal with, and so take it from there.

"Right, well, I don't know how much Mike has told you, but I was with him the whole time, so our stories can't be that much different. Do you want to see the window? It's really quite a mess- we haven't even swept it up yet. You should probably keep your shoes on, Carl," I add quickly, as he is about to slip them off.

He blushes.

"Sorry, Sydney- force of habit, I guess. It was the back door, then?"

"Yes. Come right through, and I'll show you."

I hold Emily to me, and wink at Vaughn as he heads up the stairs. He pauses long enough to give me a grin of wondering admiration, and then he is gone, leaving me to give full details of our encounter last night.

"Donovan rushed him before we even got a chance to see his face," I explain. "And while in a way I am really very glad that he did, it would be nice if I could give you a more definite description, but as it is, I'm afraid that I barely even saw his back."

"What _can_ you tell us about this guy?" Greg wanted to know.

"Well, he wasn't noticeably overweight, and I'm guessing he was about my height - maybe a few inches taller - from the way he cleared the fence. It was a man, or a woman with an incredibly masculine build, and he or she definitely limps."

"That all?"

"I'm afraid so- I'm sorry it's not more."

"No, that's great, Sydney, it really is. You say he cleared the fence- did he wake up Lisa's Huns over there?"

"The- dogs?" I guess. "Yes, but they didn't reach him in time. Lisa did come out to get them, though- she might have seen something more definite than Mike or I did."

"It's a possibility," Greg agrees. "Now, he wouldn't by some wonderful chance happen to have run through your garden, or something, would he? If we can get a clear footprint, we might get an even more definite estimation of his height and weight."

__

Five foot eleven

, I might have said, _and one hundred ninety-six pounds, unless he's lost some since I knew him last._

But of course I can't. Not without explaining myself, especially since I couldn't even see the back of his head in the twilight. So instead we go outside, and are disappointed in our search for a legible footprint. All we find is a gum wrapper by the fence, possibly dropped when he vaulted over, or maybe left there by some short-cutting neighborhood kid.

Nevertheless, the hopeful pair produces gloves and a baggie and carefully collects the evidence to be taken for fingerprint dusting. I watch them for only a second before I turn my attentions to the yard around me.

I had clearly had security in mind when I planted that dense hedge of roses, and put up the bushes around the perimeter, leaving only the section of Lisa's chain link fence that bordered on our property uncovered by shrubbery. It would not have been the sort of yard you just waltzed into from the back- you would have had to have either squeezed through a jungle of thorns, or come over or through the fence.

I somehow can't see Sloane - if it was Sloane, and I suspect that it was - scrambling through my Cumberland roses, and so make an observation to the two officers to the effect of maybe the intruder touched something else, as well- like the fence.

This seems a possibility, and they agree to investigate.

While they do, I wander around, plucking off a dead flower head here, and pulling up a weed there. Emily is warmed by the soft morning sun, and soon dozes off in my arms. Her left thumb is just creeping into her mouth when Lisa Borden emerges on her back porch, releasing the three wild animals of the previous night's adventure into her back yard. Seeing me, she smiles, and waves.

"Hey, Syd! I haven't seen you since we dragged you home half-drowned! Mike said you were doing all right, but it's so much nicer when I can actually see for myself that you're conscious. How are you, anyway?"

I make my way over to the fence, and she meets me there, as does one large, black and tan beast. He sniffs at me, and wags his tiny stub of a tail in what I assume is friendly recognition.

"I- I'm fine, thanks," I say, with a quick glance to see that the cops are still doing their job. I don't know what has been consistently making me feel like I should tell her this, but something has been, and so now, against all my best judgment, I lower my voice, and speak, sounding almost embarrassed.

"But I- um- I seem to have amnesia."

"Seriously?"

She seems upset, but not overly shocked, and this emboldens me enough to let me speak further.

"Yeah. I- well, from what Michael and I can figure out, I can't remember the last five years of my life."

"Really?" she is horrified and sympathetic all at once. Her arms come out and around me, hugging me firmly against her, and the chain link fence. "Oh gosh, Syd, that's awful. I can't imagine-" she breaks off, shaking her head, and releasing me, but keeping her hands on my shoulders, as if making sure I won't fall over.

"Yeah, it's pretty bad," I agree, "but look, I only told you now because Michael said you're my best friend, and I think that I pretty well made up my mind last night that no way would I be able to fool you. But- I really do need you to promise me something. Please, don't tell anybody else until I feel comfortable with the idea- I really don't want a bunch of people crowding around me shouting 'Remember the winter of 2006?' or something like that, you know? I mean, you can tell Tom, if you want, but-"

"No, I understand totally," Lisa reassures me, and her dark eyes are filled with concern. "Wow, Syd, that's pretty putrid, really, isn't it? Look, do you feel up to company? Or would you like to come over here? Though I bet Mike probably wants to have some time with you before he takes off to tame those little beasts of his- look, how about this. You have your breakfast with Mike, and when he's gone to work, you bring Emily over, and you can just sit, if you want, okay? We always used to just sit together- sometimes we wouldn't speak for an hour or more. Maybe you'll recognise the kitchen, or- or something, And maybe you won't, and you'll just have a really nice, quiet hour or so, and some pretty bad coffee, unless you finally want to give in, and take some tea."

I smile hesitantly, and nod.

"Sure, that- that would be really good. And I have some questions I want to ask you anyway, so- so yeah. Okay. Maybe in an hour and a half, or so?"

"Sounds fine to me," she grins, tugging her bathrobe a little tighter around her as Greg and Carl make their way back towards us. "See you then!"

Then, whistling to her pack, she makes her way back into the house, and I turn to see what my police officers have to say to me.

"No alarm system," is the first thing Carl says, his tone mildly accusatory, and I blush.

"Well, I- um- I keep telling him that we should, but he says Donovan is enough protection, so-"

"Not against somebody really tough," Greg observes, concerned. "Sydney, I want you to badger that husband of yours until he can't say no any longer. You and Emily- you're all he has. He'd go to pieces if he lost you, and without an alarm, something could happen. So get after him, okay?"

I promise to, and they ask if there is anything else.

"No, I don't think so. I just- can you maybe post somebody here? Just until- until we can get something installed?"

They agree to do their best, and say that if that's all, they'll be going over to Lisa's and seeing if she can tell them anything more.

I watch them go, and then make my way back inside, where Vaughn is laying out plates for the eggs he is scrambling on the stove, and the waffles I smell crisping in the toaster oven. I watch him, smiling, for a second, and then place Emily in her bassinet so I can feed and water our dog and cat.

Watching Donovan eat brings something to mind, and I address my husband as he locates a nearly-empty carton of orange juice, and tries to coax out two glasses' worth.

"Mike, why don't we have an alarm system?"

He rolls his eyes.

"Here we go again. I keep telling you, sweetie, that Donovan is more than enough- hold on a minute." He breaks off, gaping. "How did you know we didn't-"

"Oh, Greg and Carl, but- I told them you keep saying Donovan can take care of us. I didn't know you kept saying that, but I said you did anyway. It's true, though, isn't it?"

Dumbstruck, he nods.

"Yeah. It's true. Can you- can you remember anything else?"

I squeeze my eyes shut, and struggle to recall something- anything.

"I- I don't . . . No. I don't think so. I mean, maybe something will come to me like that did, but- for now, nothing. I'm going over to Lisa's, though, after you leave. She invited me."

"Well," he grins, setting the juice down on the table, and spooning eggs onto our plates, "at least I had you for a few days. You two are inseparable- Tom and I say we see more of each other than we do of our wives. Or, we see more of the other's wife than we do of our own."

"I just thought, since you're going back to school, that maybe . . ." I trail off, self-conscious

"Oh, no, Sydney, of course you should go." He is instantly repentant. "I was just teasing you, Love. Lisa's your best friend, and I think she's terrific. Don't ever think otherwise, all right? I hope you have a wonderful time- you spend such a lot of time over there, maybe it'll bring something back to you."

"I hope so," I sigh, nibbling a piece of fluffy egg without an excess of interest. "This is really starting to get on my nerves. I mean, before it was this great big, traumatic thing, and I guess in a way it still is, but I'm getting used to the fact that I'm married to you, and I actually kind of enjoy it. Now this stupid blank is just starting to bug me."

Vaughn smiles, I blink, and his eggs and waffles are gone. How does he eat so fast?

"Now you sound like yourself," he chuckles, and holds out his hand for my plate, which, I am startled to find, is empty. I hand it over, and watch as he runs it through the dishwasher.

"What time does the school let out?" I wonder, feeling suddenly anxious about seeing him go.

"Ten to three. Look, Sydney, if you don't want me to go to school today-"

"No, I do. I really do. I want you to go- I want everything to seem as normal as it possibly can."

We had talked about this the night before, when Dad was here, and we'd agreed that Vaughn would start back. If he didn't, then somebody might wonder if more was wrong with me than I cared to let on.

"Okay," he sighs, but still looks uncertain. Those three little forehead wrinkles are so adorable, I can't resist standing on tiptoe and kissing them smooth. Then I see the startled look on his face.

"What now?"

"You do that every time I'm worried. I never could figure out why. How did you-"

"Oh? Well, it's just those little wrinkles of yours." I point to his forehead. "You have three, and they pop up when you get that worried, squinty look. They're really adorable, Mike." I flash him a little grin.

"Now, get going, or you're going to be late, and they'll fire you, and we'll have to sell our house dirt cheap, because it doesn't have a crummy little alarm system."

I chase him out of the house, and watch as he drives away down the street, joining the throngs of other commuters who are trickling down our shady street. I wave till he is out of sight, then I go back inside to get Emily, and head over to Lisa's house.

O0O0O

The Bordens' house is a big old Victorian as well, and it appears they did some renovating also. I step into a sunny, slate-floored hallway, and Lisa drags me through the house to the kitchen, the Dobermans creating an interesting black tangle around our legs as we walk.

"Come in, sit down, relax," I am ordered, and pushed into a chair, where I sit, half-dazed, and look around me.

The kitchen is lovely, too, and two of the four walls are covered in cross-paned glass overlooking the back and side yard. The sun is shining down with a vengeance now, and if it weren't for the air conditioning, I am sure we would be feeling a substantial amount of humid heat.

"Coffee?" Lisa wonders, dragging out a well-worn teakettle, "Or will you finally give in?"

"Coffee, thanks," I smile, and watch as she locates a bag of instant, and gets down a pair of tea bags before leaving the water to boil, and seating herself across from me.

"Now," she sighs, "let the relaxation commence."

It is oddly calming to sit in complete silence with a woman I don't even know (well, don't remember knowing) for the next fifteen minutes. We do not talk at all, and Emily is completely silent, content to just lie on her back and look up at me with those big, brown eyes. There is no sound until the red button on the kettle snaps out, signaling that it is done heating, and Lisa gets up to fix a beaker of coffee and a cup of tea, which she sets in front of me and herself, respectively.

I take a tentative sip, and can hardly keep from making a face. I have never liked instant coffee, and she has even managed to ruin that. She sees my face, knows what I am thinking, and laughs.

"I could have warned you, Syd, but I wondered if you'd remember. You hate the coffee here- but you don't drink the tea, either."

"No, I don't drink tea. I haven't, ever since-" I break off. Somehow, in this beautiful, peaceful setting, 'I was nearly poisoned on a mission to England when my host tried to kill me with his orange pekoe' seems an oddly inappropriate conclusion to the sentence. I instead smile weakly, and try another sip.

Even worse than the first.

I look at the tea cup Lisa holds, smell the fragrant brew, and sigh.

"Fine. Give me your best shot. I've already lost my memory- there isn't much more you can do to me, is there?"

She laughs, shakes her head, and gets up to pour from the pot once more.

O0O0O

We do talk some once we both have our tea. She tells me little things that Michael wouldn't know- not gossip, exactly, because somehow she is incredibly objective about it all, relating observations only. Anything that involves her own opinion is edited, so her personal feelings regarding another person are never brought into play. It's like watching a movie, only even better, because you see only facts, and there isn't any mood music to try and play on your emotions. I get a very clear view of our church life, and she even brings out a directory complete with names and pictures while she speaks.

"It was done up last winter," she smiles, and points to a picture almost at the end, of Michael and a very pregnant me. The caption reads 'Vaughn; Michael, Sydney, and Baby'."

"'Baby'?" I giggle.

"Yeah. You guys absolutely refused to be told whether she was a boy or a girl. I mean, it was serious denial. You were sure it was a boy, and Mike wouldn't even listen. He just kept saying 'No, we're going to have a girl. We're having a little girl. Just wait and see.' You finally decided that, either way, to find out before it was born would be awful, because if you were right, Mike would sulk, and if he was right, he'd rub it in. But if you waited to know until you'd actually had the baby, you'd be too busy getting to know it to do anything else. And- you were right."

I smile, and glance down at Emily, who's already looking drowsy in the sunlight. Her thumb finds her mouth, and she begins a pensive rhythm with it while Lisa takes me over yet another chapter of my life I've forgotten.

Faces and names float around me- some of them are painfully close to being recognizable, as if they're floating just under the surface, and all I need to do it reach in, and scoop them up. But each time I try, they keep floating away.

A sweet little girl with big blue eyes; a man named Wade; a stout, smiling woman who looks a lot like Lisa, but is apparently no relation at all; the little boy I saw on my walk, whose name is Isaiah. Faces and names surround me until I almost think I am drowning in them.

I've been there for almost an hour when I realise that I am crying.

O0O0O

I manage to get through the whole thing, though I'm not sure how. When we're done, Lisa tactfully does not comment on my tears. Instead she hands me a Kleenex, and speaks.

"Come on. We're going for a drive."

We take Lisa's car in the direction opposite to the one I am familiar with, away from the town. Trees thin out, and so do houses, until we turn left and reach an overpass. We - well - pass over, and Lisa drives us down a long narrow road set in an open marsh. We see cows, and hay, and, eventually houses.

Then, abruptly, there is a fork in the road, and I am staring up at what has to be the largest building I've seen since we got to Sackville- a massive, white structure with only a steeple to identify its purpose as a place of worship. Otherwise, it could have served as anything from a rural department store to a private school.

"That is your church, Sydney," Lisa says. "It's also mine. We two are going to go inside, and we are going to sit, and we are going to stay there until we hear what you are supposed to do next. You can't just lie around and hope it'll come back to you sooner or later- that's going to kill you before you ever remember. You have a life here, and you deserve to remember it."

She parks in the vacant, gravel-strewn lot, and shuts off the engine.

"Come on."

She has a key, and she uses it to let us in. The building is refreshingly dim inside, and the smell is what hits me first- a cool, dusty mixture of rubber boots and clean air, and maybe a bit of office supplies as well.

Next I feel goose bumps all up my arm- a sort of déjà vu feeling, and I hear the faint sound of children's laughter, the clink of cutlery, and grown-up chatter.

"I've been here before," I say, which is stupid, because didn't Lisa just say that? But she only smiles, nods, and tugs me to the right, up a low, broad flight of six steps. We make our way through a large, empty room tiled in white and painted a ghastly turquoise, which I am instructed to ignore.

One wall is only made up of dark wooden doors, and one of these, when opened, leads to a large, echoing room that Lisa announces, quite simply, to be the sanctuary.

"Oh, good," I hear myself saying, "I could use some of that right now."

Then I pass Emily to Lisa, make my way to one of the middle rows, sit down, bow my head, and fall asleep.

O0O0O

I dream.

I have never had such a detailed dream before- ever.

It starts out in the entryway of the church, only it's filled with people. Children run back and forth, adults call after them but don't really mind the commotion- they're too busy talking to each other as they make their incredibly leisurely way towards the exit (some of them are moving so slowly they may as well be sitting down).

I am resting my hands on a swollen abdomen, feeling little tickles of life come from within, and chatting with Patti. I don't now how I know she is Patti, but I could not be more confident of the fact than if she had walked up to me and introduced herself.

Patti is feeling my stomach as well, laughing as the baby within kicks her, and then beckons over her two sons to feel it as well. Looks of wonder cross their faces, and the younger one looks up at me almost shyly.

"It's really strong, isn't it?"

"Yeah, he is," I smile.

"She's going to be a fighter," Michael says, making his way over with a sandy-haired man and a little girl in tow.

"You mean, _he's_ going to be a fighter," I smile, and reach up to pull his face down towards me, so I can kiss him.

He rolls his eyes, and speaks to the people gathered around us.

"She's in denial. Wants a son, though I have no idea why- I wouldn't wish me as a kid on my worst enemy."

"Yeah," his friend Alec agrees, "I was pretty rough on my parents, too."

"Now you're rough on your wife," I giggle, and he rolls his eyes good-naturedly

"Fine, make fun. But you watch- there's nothing like a little girl."

"And you're glad you had me, aren't you, Daddy?" pipes up the child at his side. He grins down at her, and scoops her up into his arms for a big hug and a mess of kisses.

"You betcha, kiddo," he agrees. "With all those boys, we had to balance it out somehow. Mommy and I would be lost without you, you know?"

"I know," she agrees matter-of-factly, drawing chuckles from the rest of us.

"Well," Michael decides, slipping his arm around my waist (it's embarrassing he has to reach so far!), "whatever we get, we're going to be so in love with it, Sydney won't even care it's a girl."

Then I swat him, and he ducks, laughing, as the scene fades from view, but remains firmly entrenched in my memory- the first substantial piece of something I wasn't sure I would ever get back.

Suddenly, the world seems a much friendlier place.

O0O0O

I wake up I don't know how much later. The sun has moved, and the room is bright now. Lisa is sitting beside me, her own head bowed, her lips moving without sound, and Emily is nowhere in sight.

I watch Lisa with curiosity- she seems such an intense personality when she's looking at you, but now, she seems oddly muted- subdued, even.

She is having a conversation, the other side of which I cannot hear, and I envy the fluency with which she seems to be pouring out her heart to Somebody. I want that relationship back- I had it once, I am sure, and now not even recovering my memory seems as important as recovering that friendship I am sure I had with God- even though, as is the way with the rest of the Sackville people, I can't even remember meeting Him.

Lisa looks up not more than a minute later, her eyes shining, and studies me.

"Well? What did He give you?"

"I- what?"

"He gave you something. He told me He did. A part of your life. What part was it?"

"Oh, the- the dream?"

"Yes. I asked God to give you something - anything - and- I heard Him saying that He already had, and that He was going to give you some more as well, before you got it all back. What was the dream about?"

I don't question her knowing that I had it- after all, she was just talking with the giver of that dream, wasn't she?

"I was in the- the entryway, and I think church must just have let out. There were adults, and kids, and- well- people. Everywhere. I was talking to- Patti?"

"Yes."

"And her boys, and they were feeling Emily kicking me. And Mike was there, with a man- Alec. And Alec's daughter, and- it was just talk, you know? Nothing eventful. Just- like normal people have. Something I wasn't sure I was- a normal person, I mean. It was- it was good. I think- I think that God knew what I need right now- to know I had a normal life here, with normal people, and . . ."

I am crying yet again, but now they are sobs of relief, and as tears run down my cheeks, they are something I have been waiting for ever since I found out how much I had lost.

Lisa sits there, and hugs me, and for a long time we say nothing at all.

O0O0O

Once I have exhausted my supply of salt water, I think to ask what Lisa has done with my daughter.

"She's up in the nursery. When you fell asleep, I wanted to pray, and I needed a place to put her. She's there a lot, so she shouldn't be afraid. Come on- I'll show you the rest of the church before we get her."

The church is big. Really big. It's also a lot cozier on the inside than it looks on the out, since there are a lot of medium to small rooms, rather than a few really big ones.

"It's used as a Christian school during the week," Lisa explains, "and the Youth Group uses it, as well as the local air cadets, and a whole lot of other people. We're trying to reach the community, not set ourselves apart for them to find. It seems to be working a lot better, too- you and Mike came here to hear the choir, and you haven't left since."

I am only half listening to her, though, because I am starting to remember. Not everything, by any means, but it seems like a lot, when compared to what I had before. It gets so that it seems I can't step into another room without being provided with a tiny flashback of something that happened in there.

Jam in Kimberlea's hair.

__

"Mommy's going to be so mad at me, Mrs. Vaughn! She just washed it this morning!" A pause. "Mm. It's grape. That's my most favorite."

A truly adorable prayer session with the two- and three-year-olds.

__

"Thank-you, God, for everything and peanut butter and Dakota's new kitten, and make nobody die or get sick or be anything wrong with them. We love You very much and we know You loves us even more than anybody ever anywhere. Amen."

One older man falling, and breaking his arm.

__

"Didn't I tell you to move that bucket so nobody would trip over it? Didn't I? And look at him! Eighty, if he's a day, and flying headfirst down the stairs! So help me, John . . ."

A particularly upsetting event when a deranged local teenager got a gun, and broke into the church when I was speaking to the youth group. He had come running into the youth room, and my somewhat violent reaction had impressed all the youth assembled therein.

"_Wow, Mrs. Vaughn, where's you learn to hit like that?! Bet even Bob couldn't take you on and win. Want to try it, sometime, huh, Mrs. Vaughn?"_

A wedding between two people whose faces I couldn't see, but who were obviously beloved by the entire community- at least, it seemed as if the entire community had turned out to watch them commit to each other.

__

"They remind me of us, Sydney. They had to wait so long to get married, and look at how in love they are . . ."

By the time we reach the nursery, I have at least twenty new snippets, all from different times I had spent in the church. Some Michael is in, some other people are, and some are just of times I had experienced by myself. It is the most precious gift anybody could have given me at the time, aside from the whole missing chapter of my life being given back.

When we reach the nursery, I feel at once as if I am in familiar territory. I don't recognise it, exactly, but I know exactly where the cribs are kept, and head right in to lift Emily from hers. Her eyes shine at me, and she waves a little fist around in the air, studying it with great interest.

"You have a hand there, Princess?" I beam, kissing it. "Such a precious little hand. Such a precious little girl-" I choke on a sob, and quickly hug her to me. Lisa watches, an unspoken question written all over her face.

"I love her," I explain, kissing the soft fuzz on the top of the little head. "I mean, I really, really- I love her."

I hold her out for a second, so I can look into the face of the tiny person I know I would die for without reservation, and am completely filled with awe that any human on Earth can feel like this.

And it's funny, because although I had meant to speak to Dad, and see if we really believe that Mom once loved us, I now don't need to. Holding my child, looking into that perfect, precious face, I know.

You can't carry and give birth to a child and not, for at least a second, love that little person more than anything else in the world.

So she did.

Even if she didn't always, for at least a moment, she must have. And that is more than enough for me.

Emily cradled to my chest, I join Lisa, and we leave the church together.

O0O0O

When we get home it's past lunch time, and we find that we're all three of us starving. While I feed Emily, Lisa throws together a salad and sandwiches in my kitchen, and that reminds me of tomorrow night.

"I need to make a macaroni salad, or something, for the Gavins' barbecue," I muse. "Mike's going to be tired right out when he gets home- I just know it. He's been going all out trying to help me, and going back to school, probably without even a lesson plan- oh, why didn't I make him go back on Monday?"

"Because deep down, you knew he'd never agree," Lisa grins, handing me my tuna salad sandwich, and mixing Caesar dressing in with Romaine lettuce, bacon bits, Parmesan and croutons, "You knew he wouldn't have left you for the world."

I smile, and taste the sandwich.

"Wow- you can _cook_."

"Don't let my instant coffee fool you," she agrees, sitting down across from me, "I can usually put together a pretty good lunch when I try."

Then she says a blessing over the food, and we eat in companionable silence, Donovan begging shamelessly, and Francie circling like some predatory creature, ready to dart in at the first sign of weakness.

"I feel like I'm in Africa, or something," I giggle, glancing down at the slavering bulldog jaws on my right, and the hypnotizing green stare of my miniature tiger.

"Yeah, it's kind of hard to enjoy yourself at my place, too," Lisa grins, "since each crust is grounds for an all-out war among my babies."

I think of her three dogs, each moving like a thoroughly muscled, well-oiled machine with more teeth than I care to think of, and have a hard time pairing them with the title 'babies', but make no comment. Instead, I finish my salad, and start in on my sandwich.

"I didn't think I was this hungry," I mumble, surprised, between bites. "This is really good, Lisa. I mean it."

She smiles, watching me attack the sandwich for a bit before she makes a comment.

"You know, I didn't think you liked tuna."

"I don't," I say cheerfully, having swallowed another bite. "I can't stand it, actually. Umm, this is terrific."

She looks as if she might say something, but then thinks better of it, and shakes her head.

"Well, if you're going to be taking a salad to the barbecue Thursday, I think I'll take dessert. Lorraine said they could use a lot of light, cool things- maybe Jell-O salad?"

I shrug, polishing off the last of my sandwich.

"Sounds good. What do you usually put in your salads?"

"Fruit, and lime Jell-O. Pretty standard stuff."

"Mm," I study my empty plate. "Feel like some dessert?"

O0O0O

We go out for it, and are walking home with ice cream cones in hand and Emily in her stroller when I bring up the subject of the man Lisa saw lurking around our house.

"Look, I know you probably described him a hundred times over, but of course I can't remember,. And I was wondering- could you indulge me? Just maybe?"

She gives me a mystified smile, and nods.

"He was - I don't know - maybe a few inches taller than you, judging from how high he was against the window. He was sort of hunched over, peering in. He had dark brown hair, was balding in the front, and he wasn't exactly Mr. America, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do." I smile. The hair color is wrong, of course, but then again, I of all people should know that hair color is one of the easiest things to alter in a person's appearance. And of course there are those little boxes of Just For Men that are supposed to rejuvenate for a fraction of the professional cost, so I could let that go.

"He was- limping, you said?"

"Yeah. Not too badly, but definitely noticeable."

"Do you know which leg he was favoring?"

"Mm- yeah, it was the left."

"Anything else?"

"Well, he was wearing a dark suit, and he looked like he should have been in an office somewhere. I thought maybe he was a lawyer, or a salesman, or maybe even a friend of yours from back in Virginia, so I asked him if I could help him, and told him you were away. He just took off."

"Hmm."

I am still mulling this over, and chasing a chocolate dribble with my tongue, when I see a rushing blur out of the corner of my eye. It must be a long time since I've had to do this, but even some of the most unorthodox of things, I guess, are just like riding a bike, and as I have done so many times before, so many years ago, I react purely out of instinct.

Whirling around, I follow a teaching I actually learned at SD-6: use whatever weapons you have at hand. Even the most mundane of objects can be turned to your advantage, if you can think quickly enough.

Thinking quickly has never been a problem for me. I smash my ice cream cone into the face of a short, dark-haired man who is on the verge of slicing through my abdomen with a wicked-looking switchblade. Giving Emily's stroller a swift, if gentle, kick to move her well beyond arm's reach, I shout at Lisa to stay back, to take Emily, and to go and get help.

I then deliver an uppercut to his jaw, and duck a wildly-swinging fist before slamming my own into his stomach. When he doubles over, I drive my knee up into his chin, but before I can put him down completely he drops the knife and takes off, and I am more concerned with my friend and daughter than I am about running after him, so I let him go.

"Are you all right?" I demand of Lisa, turning to face her, vaguely surprised that even after three or four years of relative inactivity I am barely winded from the scrap. "Is Emily?"

She nods, tight-lipped but relatively unshaken, and, passing my baby to me for me to inspect and gauge first-hand the (nonexistent) damage, looks after my attacker.

"You didn't go for help," I observe without judgment.

"It didn't look like you were going to need it. Who- who was that?"

"I don't know- I never saw him before. Have you?"

"No, he's not from around here."

"Hm."

"We should call the police, Sydney," she frowns, biting her lower lip. "He might try to attack somebody else who can't fight back as well as you can."

I satisfy myself that Emily is, indeed, none the worse for wear, and place her carefully back in her stroller before I shake my head firmly.

"I doubt it. I'll bet that he was probably just a tourist looking for money to upgrade to a first-class ticket home, or something- or maybe he was from New York. Muggers must take vacations too."

I make an attempt at a grin.

"Anyway, he's probably long gone by now- even if I did call the police, there's no way they'd ever catch him."

But Lisa persists until I finally relent, and promise to call the cops when I get home. I am, though, more than positive that by now, he has more likely than not been ordered to fly to Tahiti and stay there until he rots, so he won't be able to finger his boss.

His boss.

This is making me consider something somewhat nervously. I am more than aware that, if I act on this, I might be pushing it, but I really don't care. My daughter, my husband, and my cat and dog were all endangered last night because of me and my life, and that was bad enough.

Now again today I had to protect my family and my friend from a mistake I was tricked into making years ago, and have regretted ever since. I am sick and tired of losing people I care about, and if putting a stop to it means tipping my hand a bit, I am beyond the point of caring.

I look at Lisa.

"Come with me. There's something I want to show you."

Five years of friendship have not been in vain. She takes one look at me, and doesn't bother to ask me why she should, or why I want her to. She just comes.

O0O0O

When we get to the house, I head to straight to the photo albums, and tug out the first volume. I flip through it furiously, searching until I find a few shots of Dad and me at the SD-6 family barbecue (only, the family members of SD-6 operatives think it's the Credit Dauphine family barbecue). I scan faces thoroughly, feeling oddly detached as I look at Marshall, Dixon, Diane, and everybody else I once called my friends. They're from a life that is completely foreign to me now, even though I still feel like a stranger in my current one.

At last I find what I'm looking for- a profile shot of Sloane chatting with Emily and a few other people I should probably know, but don't, and really don't care about.

Finger trembling, I point at him, and, careful to keep my voice neutral, I ask Lisa,

"Could that be the man you saw?"

Then I set my teeth, and brace myself for her answer.

O0O0O

O0O0O

Well, that's it for this part, and there is at least one more chapter to come - watch for it! I have also been toying with this little idea of mine, which will mean several additional chapters, but will also mean a major plot twist, which I'm not entirely sure I can pull off. I have decided, though, that I want to try, so we'll see if I don't flub it up completely. Meanwhile thank you all for the great reviews! I love any kind of feedback, as long as it's constructive, because I want to get better what what I write but I have to say that positive reviews sure feel the best!

In addition to me not owning Alias I also don't own Jell-O or any other trademarks I may have mentioned, like Kleenex, or anything else. Butterfly Kisses, the song I partially quoted in the first chapter, belongs to Bob Carlisle, though I probably sing it more than he does, anyway, even if I don't sing it nearly as well. Just basically assume that anything you recognise from real life doesn't belong to me, and we will all be just fine.

Have I missed anything? Please let me know, and please keep reading!


	4. Chapter Four

O0O0O

_When we get to the house, I head to straight to the photo albums, and tug out the first volume. I flip through it furiously, searching until I find a few shots of Dad and me at the SD-6 family barbecue (only, the family members of SD-6 operatives think it's the Credit Dauphine family barbecue). I scan faces thoroughly, feeling oddly detached as I look at Marshall, Dixon, Diane, and everybody else I once called my friends. They're from a life that is completely foreign to me now, even though I still feel like a stranger in my current one._

_At last I find what I'm looking for- a profile shot of Sloane chatting with Emily and a few other people I should probably know, but don't, and really don't care about._

_Finger trembling, I point at him, and, careful to keep my voice neutral, I ask Lisa,_

_"Could that be the man you saw?"_

_Then I set my teeth, and brace myself for her answer._

O0O0O

"No."

I am almost disappointed, although for the life of me I can't say why. "You're sure?"

"Positive. The guy I saw had darker hair, a flatter face, and he was a lot nastier looking. Who's this guy?"

"Oh- just some creepy person I knew back in- the States. I just wondered if maybe . . . But you're really certain this isn't the one you saw?"

"Absolutely. Actually, come to think of it, the guy I saw was probably at least half a foot taller than you. I never really allowed for how much he was bent over at the window when I first saw him- or for the sunlight when I said his hair was light brown. It's probably darker than yours in normal light. He was really tall, and though he wasn't bulging with muscles, or anything, he wasn't a weakling, you know? Kind of like- well, forgive the dog analogy, but he was kind of like my Dobes. You can't see the muscle, per se, but you'd be safe in assuming that it's there."

I am trying to hear what she is saying- it could be crucial. But all I can think of is that I have another unknown enemy to deal with, and I still am not positive who, exactly, I am. The last thing I need is some faceless creep trying to kill me- I won't even know it's him until he attacks.

Unless I already know him.

"Lisa, I don't suppose that you could draw him for me, could you?"

"Oh, sure, but I don't know how much detail you can really get out of stick people," she sighs. "You know, Mike already suggested finding a police sketch artist, but you never got around to it. If this is really bugging you - and after that weirdo today, I can see why it would - we could try that."

"Yeah, I think I'd like that," I murmur, letting the album fall shut. "I think that would be a good idea."

O0O0O

Lisa stays with Emily, Donovan, Francie and me until Michael comes home, leaving only to fetch her dogs, who offer an extreme degree of comfort by their mere presence. We pass the time on the couch, watching the Dobermans and our bulldog range themselves around Emily and mount a stern vigil over the bassinet. There is never a time that she is not guarded by at least two of the Dobes, and Donovan never leaves her side.

I feel safe- at least, as safe as I ever have in the past twelve years or so, and when Michael pulls up, and the Dobermans all tense, I am almost asleep.

We meet him at the door- all of us, except for Francie, who retreated under the couch halfway through the afternoon. He is a little surprised, but not overly, and I wonder how many times, exactly, he's come home to two women, an infant, four dogs and one elusive cat. Perhaps more often than the average man, but then, Michael Vaughn has never claimed to be your average man.

"What's up?" he wonders, and is pleasantly surprised when I plant a decisive kiss on his cheek.

"We were attacked today," Lisa frowns, and Michael immediately drops everything he is holding. One particularly heavy book lands on his foot, and he doubles over, grimacing, before I help him into the kitchen, and sit him down on a chair.

"Are you all right?" I ask, concerned, and help him slip off his shoe. His foot is a little red, and there might be a smallish bruise on it the next morning, but no bones appear to be broken. Thank Heaven fifth grade math isn't an especially weighty text.

"Yeah, I'm fine, I'm just- attacked? Are you all okay?"

"Yes, attacked, and yes, we're fine. I took care of him."

"Did she ever!" Lisa grins. "He ran off with his tail between his legs. She still hasn't called the police, though- maybe you can get her to, Mike. She acted as if she'd been the one who committed the crime, not this shrimpy little guy."

"Little? How little?"

I describe him as best I can, and Mike nods grimly. "That sounds like the guy from the coffeeshop. It's us, then. He's after-" he breaks off, conscious of Lisa's presence. "Yes, well," he mumbles, "we _should_ call the police, Syd, just to be safe, all right? And if it makes you happier, I'll contact somebody tonight about getting an alarm system installed."

It's finny how those words make me feel as if I've won a long-standing argument, even though I can't actually remember having the argument. I bend down, and hug him. "Thanks, Mike. So, you've heard a bit about our day- how was yours?"

"Nowhere near as eventful. I just had one hundred and twelve kids, all of them in summer vacation anticipation mode. My headache is ready to split my skull open, but I'll survive."

I grin, and ask Lisa if she'll get him some aspirin from the bathroom cabinet while I get him some water, and a couple crackers to go with it so he won't be taking it on an empty stomach. Once she's left, he addresses me. "So we are definitely targets. Or rather, you're a target. I think you should take Emily, and go out to our cottage until I can get this sorted out."

"And leave you here?" I make it quite clear by my tone that this is not an option, but just to be sure he gets the message, I add, "Not a chance, Agent Vaughn. I can't for the life of me remember what I said for my wedding vows, but I am sure there was something about for better or worse in there, and you've known me long enough to know that this is nowhere near worse. So don't even think about getting rid of me. Emily, however," I concede, "is a different story."

"What do you suggest we do?"

"I think Dad should take her- not necessarily out of town, but at least to his place. She'd be safe with him- I know it."

"Yes, she would," Mike agrees, "but so would you. You're sure-"

"Don't even bother wasting your breath." I smile, and my eyes tell him I mean it, so he sighs, and nods, just as Lisa returns with the aspirin.

She stays for another few minutes, offers a dog or two for the night, and we accept, ending up with Honey, who is very pretty and mostly red, with, Lisa tells me, a very correct head. Beats me how she can tell, but she's the dog person, not me, and she promises me that it is, so I accept that as fact. More reassuring do I find Honey's very correct bite- two rows of gleaming, well-kept white teeth, which I find a relieving sight when paired with Donovan's brawn.

Honey sits obediently at my side as we see her two friends, Chloe and Dax, leave with her mother. Then she sticks to my side as I return to my family, and makes it quite clear that she does not plan to leave me for the entire duration of her stay.

And that is just fine with me.

O0O0O

Dad comes over after supper to drop off a CD Michael wanted to borrow, and when he hears what happened, he wants to take Emily with him right away.

"I'd take you, too, Sydney, if I didn't think you'd drop me when I tried," he adds, with the ghost of a smile.

But I am reluctant to let Emily go just yet, and we decide that I'll hand her over the following night, at the Gavin barbecue. If anybody asks, we'll say that Michael and I want the weekend to ourselves (wink wink, nudge nudge. All winking and nudging were of course strictly on Dad's part. Mike and I were mute and scarlet).

So Dad leaves, and Mike and I find ourselves alone in the house - well, if you call two dogs, a cat and a baby alone. We settle Emily into her crib, and then go back downstairs, the dogs - well - dogging our heels, and join Francie on the couch. We sit in silence for a second, then I fall against him with a sigh, fitting the back of my neck under his shoulder, so he drapes his arm parallel to mine. I fit in right there, and I don't want to move.

"I remembered some things today," I tell him quietly.

"You did? Really? What things?"

"Church things. Lisa took me there, and she prayed for me to see some things, and God let me. I had a dream, first, and then each time I went into a different room in the church there was- something. It was like Christmas, almost- a new gift around each corner."

"Tell me some of them," he invites, so I remind him of the incident with the armed kid disrupting the youth group meeting. His jaw tightens as I relate it, and his arm draws snug around me. "You could have been killed," he murmurs.

"Yes, I could have. And I could have been killed each time you sent me out on my counter-mission, Mike. It isn't as if I'm a stranger to the threat of bodily harm, or anything. What happened to that boy, anyway? The one with the gun?"

"He's serving ten at the Penitentiary- it's not more than a half hour's drive from here. And for the record, you and Bob never did get to have your match."

"I agreed to fight him?"

"Well, yes, but only to keep them from pestering you, and you came downstairs the next morning with your arm in a sling, and didn't take it out until the kids forgot the whole thing."

I laugh, and rest my head against his chest almost without thinking about it. "They're good kids, aren't they, Mike?"

"Yeah, they are. They all are. They like you- both the girls and the guys. The guys, because you're like a mom, action hero and really cool aunt all rolled into one, and the girls because you're comfortable with who you are, and don't try to be somebody you're not."

"They don't even know who I really am- _what_ I really am." I mumble, but Michael disagrees.

"Yes they do, Syd. They know you're Sydney Vaughn, a wonderful, caring woman who would do anything for your family and friends- for them. They know you are a good person, and they know you're brave, and strong," he leans down, looking directly into my face. "And they don't know the half of it."

Tears slip down my cheeks, and I wonder if there will ever be a time in my life when I can have one single day without crying. As I wonder, he kisses away each tear, until they stop falling. I manage a tiny, watery smile, and he returns it with one of his own.

"That's better. Now, come on, Mrs. Vaughn. It's getting late, you've had a long day, and you're bone tired. We also have macaroni salad to make tomorrow, and more people than I care to think of to fool. I think it's time for bed."

And, scooping me up in his arms as if I weighed next to nothing, that is exactly where he takes me.

O0O0O

The following morning is every bit as humid as the previous two, if not more. Inside the house it's cool enough, but when I step out onto the doorstep to pick up the milk, I am hit by a wall of air that closely resembles an invisible wet, heavy, hot blanket. Sweating bullets, I turn to go back inside and nearly trip over Honey, who followed me downstairs without my knowing.

"Oh, sorry," I smile. "I bet you have to go out, huh? Well- go on, then. Do your thing."

She does, and Donovan joins her. As I watch to make sure they don't wander out onto the road, I have to tug off a light bathrobe I took from the closet, and even in a baggy tee shirt I am still warm- and more revealed to the general public than I am comfortable with.

"It's going to rain tonight," I predict to the dogs as they trot back inside. "No, I think it's going to pour. Now, who wants breakfast?"

They both do, but then, they're dogs, so go figure. I feed them both, using a pair of cereal bowls for our guest, and put out some food for Francie as well. Then I put the macaroni for tonight's salad on to boil, and I chop up some fruit to make a fruit salad for breakfast. Mike is just coming downstairs, showered and dressed, when I set it all out, and he eyes my clothing - or lack thereof - with askance.

"I chose to put appetite before apparel- for today, at least." I explain. "Now, is this enough, or do you want more?"

"No, this is fine, thanks," he says, still eyeing my shirt. "And- so is your outfit, really."

I blush, and give him a fork. "Hmph. Now, where do we keep- ah. Here they are." I swing open a cupboard door, and locate an array of cookbooks. Selecting one at random, I chase down a good recipe for macaroni salad, leave it open to that page on the counter, and join my husband at the table. The fruit salad is prefect on a day like this. Everything outside the house is heavy, and even the air inside is a bit thick. It makes me want to fall asleep right there, and it is only with an effort that I keep my eyes open.

"You won't run around, or anything, will you?" Mike asks me skeptically. "I mean, no fighting, no kick boxing, no saving the world- geez, Syd, how many men have to say that to their wives?"

I laugh a bit, shake my head, and brush a quick kiss over his lips. It doesn't feel too strange, so I do it again, only a bit longer. Then I watch as he gets into his car, and guides it out onto the street before he sets off towards work. I watch the car until it disappears from view, and then, humming softly to myself, I wander back inside to have a shower.

O0O0O

Once I am showered and dressed in as little as I can get away with without inciting a riot, I return to my now-chilled macaroni, and follow the recipe I am given in Maritime Soups and Salads. It's surprisingly easy, even for a pasta salad, and I am done in under ten minutes. Then I place it in the fridge, lock all the doors and windows, and take my entourage exploring through my house.

Eighty-seven Bridge Street is not rambling, or anything, but it is by no means tiny, and it takes me a little while to do it justice. I poke into corners, open doors, and explore very nook and cranny it has to offer, until I know everything about it- from where we keep our winter clothes (I never had a real winter jacket before, and can't resist trying it on), to how many varieties of spare light bulbs are stored under the stairs. Then I settle down with a hungry Emily, who seems to know no set schedule, and animals who don't mind arranging themselves around me and waiting for me to get up again.

"I like you," I inform Emily, "as well as love you. You're a sweetie. And even though I technically know who you are, I don't really know much about you. I wish you could tell me yourself, but for now I'm just going to make up a list for Daddy to answer when he gets home. Kind of like a test he would give his students, only he's going to give me all the right answers. How does that sound, Pumpkin?"

Emily, busy as she is, gorging on lukewarm milk, doesn't answer, so I prop a pad of paper up on her hip, and begin to write.

"Birth date, and time you were born. Name of doctor who delivered you- well, it was probably whatsisface, with the black eye, but it never hurts to make sure. Remember that, Emily- it never hurts to make sure. Now, weight at birth, baby shower attendees and gifts, and- what else is there? Where we shop for baby supplies, where we buy your clothes, your middle name- gosh, Sweetie, Mommy doesn't even know your middle name. Isn't that terrible? I hope it isn't Laura. I don't think I'd be able to handle that one just yet. Um- length at birth. I don't guess it would be height until you start standing up, would it? And allergies, and birthmarks . . . wow, there's a lot to cover, isn't there? Mommy had better not make a habit of getting amnesia- this is really time-consuming."

I go on, making a list that covers two and a half pages of standard-size notebook paper with my tiny, cramped writing. When I am done it is noon hour, my hand is throbbing, and my stomach is growling. So are the dogs, who really have to go outside. I put them out, and contemplate cooking. It doesn't appeal to me, so once the animals are all inside again, I pop Emily into her carrier, strap it into the back of my car, and drive downtown. I choose a small establishment whose sign proclaims it to be the Olive Branch Restaurant, and, once I park the car parallel to the curb in front of the little café, I get out and am shocked by the wave of heat that hits me.

"We should've moved to Florida, Sweetheart," I inform my daughter as I remove her carrier from the car. "It would have been a lot cooler there. Or Kenya. So sue me, but I've always liked Kenya."

Emily gurgles as I move quickly to get her inside the air conditioned room, where a pretty waitress about eighteen years old, with an abundance of black, shining curls, all but skips over and greets me.

"Hi, Mrs. Vaughn! Wow, it's great to see you- it's been a while, hasn't it?"

How am I supposed to know?

"It sure has."

"Mr. Vaughn isn't joining you today?"

"No, he still has classes. It's just Emily and me."

"Of course. Right this way, then." She leads me to a two-person table, and I set Emily on the table so I can see her.

"I just want a sandwich, please," I say quickly, before the curly girl can get me a menu. "Roast beef? With mustard, tomato, lettuce, no mayonnaise, and an iced tea?"

"Of course. Anything else?"

"No, thank-you . . ." I squint at her tiny name tag, "Emma."

"Right, then, I'll be back shortly." She vanishes through a pair of saloon-style doors to inform the cook, leaving me to relax. The air conditioner is cranked up as high as it will go, and is doing a not-too-shabby job of combating the humidity. Emily kicks her feet in the air with a look of definite satisfaction on her face, making me smile.

"You, sweetie, are a cute one. It's going to be awfully hard to give you to your grandpa for any length of time- Mommy and Daddy will work extra hard to catch the nasty man who's after us. Mommy promises."

_But_ _first,_ I add grimly to myself, _we have to figure out who he is._

It isn't as if I have any shortage of enemies, and chained to his desk though he was in LA, Mike must have his fair share of unsavory acquaintances as well. We're going to have our work cut out for us, if it means going back over each and every one of them. I don't look forward to it, but the sooner we find out who is after us - or rather, after me, by the looks of it - the sooner we can get Emily back home. For now, I content myself with studying every inch of her, until I am sure there is not a square centimeter of skin I will not recognise. I could pick her out of a hundred babies- maybe even blindfolded. You don't have to remember your child, I decide, to know who she is. So maybe there are some things nobody can take away from you, after all.

It is on this comforting note that Emma reappears with my iced tea and a thick sandwich, which makes my mouth water just to looks at it.

"Here you go, Mrs. Vaughn," she beams, setting them down in front of me, "Enjoy."

And, since I haven't any other plans, I do.

O0O0O

After lunch, I am seized with the somewhat irrational desire to see Michael. Checking my watch, I find it's only one o'clock- he's nowhere near the end of his classes. But I still want to see him, so I put Emily in the car, and drive to the school. Maybe it was a little insensitive of me, because when I show up at the door of his room, and about six or seven little kids all shout, "Mr. Vaughn, your wife's here," poor Michael looks like he might go into cardiac arrest.

"Are you all right?" he demands, rushing me out into the hall. "Did somebody come to the house? What is it?"

"I'm fine, Mike," I reassure him. "I just- I wanted to see you. Could I- could I stay here? In the back of the class, maybe? Just for today? With Emily? Would that be- no, I- I'm sorry, I shouldn't have even-" I turn to go, but he catches my elbow, and turns me back to face him.

"No, Sydney, that would be fine. That would be great. I- I'd love to have you stay." He smiles, and those green eyes twinkle, making my heart skip a beat or two.

"Really?" I ask faintly.

"Really," he promises. "I'll feel better if I can see for myself that you're safe, anyway. Now, come on in, and I'll get you a seat, okay?"

I do, and he does, giving me a chair at the back, next to a shelf of fifth-grade reading material. I select a battered old C.S. Lewis _Narnia_ book, and immerse myself with quiet relief in the simple writing and rich story. For a children's book, I find it more than a little intense in subject material. _I was going to_ _say,_ I read, _I wished we'd never come. But I don't, I don't, I don't. Even if we are killed. I'd rather be killed fighting for Narnia than grow old and stupid at home and perhaps go about in a bath-chair and then die in the end just the same._

It's a surprisingly powerful sentiment, and I find it's one I can relate to, especially given my own past. I am jolted suddenly from the story when the bell rings, and with a sense of unreality I replace the novel on its shelf, shoulder Emily, and make my way through the dispersing waves of pre-teens to where Michael is seated behind his desk. He smiles up at me, kicks his desk so his chair rolls back, and faces me.

"So-" he begins, "we have one, maybe two minutes until they come in. Want to tell me what brings you here?"

"I wanted to see you." I smile faintly. "I already made the salad for tonight, I never take long choosing what to wear, I've already had lunch, and the animals will be fine for a while without me. So- I came. There wasn't anything," I add, with a feeling of awe, "to stop me. I mean- I can see you any time I want now, can't I? We can- we can do what we wanted to. Grab a pizza, look at each other in public, go to a hockey game- it must be nice."

Mike's little smile broadens into a full-fledged grin, and he nods.

"It is," he confirms, "it really is."

I am leaning in closer to him almost without realising it, but before anything can happen, the first kid comes tearing in through the door, and I quickly straighten up, my cheeks warm. She gives me a curious look, and a quick wave.

"Hi, Mrs. Vaughn."

"Hi-" I blank, of course.

"Sarah," Mike whispers, and I nod my thanks.

"Hi, Sarah. How are you?"

"Good. Are you and Emily going to be in our class today?"

"Yeah. I thought maybe Mr. Vaughn might get lonesome when you guys are working so hard. What do you think?"

"Oh, I don't have to work," she twinkles at me. "I would rather help. I can keep him company, if you want to go home, Mrs. Vaughn. It's awfully hot in here today- I bet you'd feel better if you were at home, where it must be a lot cooler."

"That little monkey!" I marvel, once we have graciously turned down her offer, and watch the other kids flock to their seats. "She's a born saleswoman, isn't she?"

Mike agrees that she is, and then I make my way back to my little seat as he gets to his feet, and addresses the class.

"Hi, everybody. Yes, this is my wife; you all know her, and you know Emily as well, so there isn't any need to gape at them, or anything. Instead, we are going to try and wrap up all of our unfinished work today, so tomorrow we can kick back with a lot of ice and some cold drinks- no, Aaron, they will not let you bring in Johnny Walker. I am sorry. Yes, I did ask. They said no deal. You're just going to have to deal with that, all right? Very good. Anything else? No? Wonderful. You all know what you need to do- get to it."

They do, pulling out a variety of unfinished projects that they start on. Some are from Mike's class, but a lot are obviously from others, because one boy, when he sees his teacher is busy with another student, catches my eye, and waves me over.

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Vaughn, how do you say 'I don't think' in French?"

"_Je ne pense pas_."

"Thanks."

"No problem. What's this you're working on-" I glance at the name written on the top of his paper, "Sam?"

"My French paper. Madame Belleveau said I didn't have enough words, so I have to do more really fast, because it needs to be in tomorrow morning, and I want to go to the barbecue tonight, so I can't have any homework to do."

"Ah, I see. You're coming to Dr. Gavin's barbecue, are you?"

"Yeah. And maybe I'll have to watch Amy, because of her foot."

"Amy Gavin, you mean? Why? What happened to her foot?"

"She _broke_ it," Sam rolls his blue eyes. The kid is impossibly cute, and it's all I can do not to pinch his cheek as I listen to him elaborate on his explanation. "Almost two weeks ago, Amy was coming down the stairs, but she's just little, right? So she tripped, and fell, and she broke her foot. She's got this tiny cast on it." He holds his fingers up against his foot to show the comparison in size. "It's kind of cute, I guess, but of course she can't walk, or anything, or she'll crack the cast, so she needs somebody to keep her still. And Mom always makes me do it."

I make a sympathetic noise and bend over his desk to help him conjugate some of the more difficult verbs as the minutes tick past. By the time the bell rings, his paper is as polished as we can get it, without me actually writing the thing for him, and I am impressed by his grasp of the language. He is, I tell him before he leaves, a shoo-in for an 'A'.

Then I meet up with Michael, who is loading reams of paper into a briefcase that looks too tiny to hold them, and bend down to kiss his cheek. I miss, because he reached for a pen, and end up kissing his ear. We both can't help laughing over that, and when we're done I offer to help him pack, but he declines.

"Thanks, but this is all I can handle for tonight. We need to get home and change, and then have a little relaxation time before we take off for the Gavins' place, all right?"

It sounds fine to me, so while he carries his things out to his car, I take Emily to mine. We agree to head straight home, and with greatest reluctance I watch him get into his car, wishing somewhat irrationally that he could come in mine instead. It isn't any more than a one-minute drive home, though, and I wonder if, when he has less of a workload, Mike might not actually walk to work. The house looks welcoming as we pull into the drive, even though it is still oppressively humid once I get out of the car. I can hardly wait to get inside, where it's cool and clean, but I still have to let the dogs out, so we put Emily on the kitchen table, and Mike braves the heat to sit with me on the wicker loveseat while the dogs do their thing.

"How was your day?" he wonders, and I reassure him that it was fine. Except . . .

"It isn't Sloane. The man Lisa saw. I- I got the picture from our album of the SD-6 barbecue, and she saw Sloane, and I asked her, and- well, it wasn't him."

"I see." Mike digests this information. "Any idea who it might have been?"

"None. I mean- not if it's somebody I remember knowing. Could it be somebody from after we took SD-6 down?"

"Possibly. There are still a few loose ends that need to be tied up, but none of them were considered threatening to us at the time. Sloane was always our major concern- we never really thought there was anybody else we had to worry about."

"Could it be Sark? He doesn't exactly fit the description, but with some plastic surgery-"

"No. Sark is locked up solid in prison- at least, as far as I know he is." Mike is worried. "I should put a call through to make sure."

"Please," I urge him. "If it is- well, he scares me even more than Sloane."

"I know. Better get those dogs in, and get dressed."

"You'll make the call?"

I don't doubt he will, but I'm scared, and I'm looking for reassurance. Whether or not he knows it (and I suspect he does) Mike more than gives it to me in the quiet simplicity of his reply.

"I'll make the call."

I am comforted.

O0O0O

I change while he calls, finding it surprisingly difficult to select my outfit. You would think that a woman who had crashed some of the most elite parties in Europe and North America wouldn't have any trouble at all when dressing for something so simple as a friend's barbecue, but I do. In the end, Mike is coming upstairs by the time I select my outfit- a simple sheath made of some silky, light material. It could pass for casual as easily as dressy, and it won't make me sweat myself into dehydration in the heat. I have just slipped into it to see what it looks like when Michael comes through the door, and gives a whistle of approval that makes me blush.

"Shut up. I still have to shower, and do my hair. I just wanted to see if I could pull it off."

"Sydney," he smiles conspiratorially, "you pull off every outfit in that closet, and that includes all of mine. Now, do you want to shower first, or do you want me to?"

"I want you to tell me what they told you about Sark."

"As far as the largely uninterested lady could tell, we're safe. At least, there haven't been any prisoner escapes that anybody's seen fit to tell her about, but she needs to clear it through the proper channels before she can give me a full update, since I'm technically suspended until further notice."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, I didn't do anything I wasn't supposed to - unless you count that massive breach of protocol when I fell in love with the agent I was handling - but they have to make my five-year absence look okay. So- I'm suspended."

"Ah."

"Anyway, I don't think you have to worry. I left my cell number, so they could all me if there's any news, but I'm sure she'd have heard something. Prisoner escapes are generally very well-publicized, so they can get the guy back behind bars as soon as possible. Now, who do you want to shower first?"

O0O0O

I end up showering first. Ladies, a tip- when in doubt, always shower first. That way, you have more time to make yourself look oh-so-pretty while your gentleman makes himself presentable. Or maybe, like in my case, you think that you can spend the time checking your e-mail until you realise you don't know your own password and end up staring at that stupid mail client log-in page in blank frustration for a minute before you decide that maybe making yourself look pretty isn't such a bad idea after all.

I don't have to do much, I decide, if it's a barbecue. Instead I just run a brush through my hair, and aim the blow dryer at my head until my hair fluffs out softly around my face. Then I tug on the dress, find a pair of coordinating sandals, and do the dash-of-gloss on my lips, take a stab at my cheeks with a blush brush, and consider myself done. I then retrieve Emily from the kitchen table, and take her into her room to pack for her stay at my father's, and change both her diaper and her clothes.

The packing is time-consuming but simple, and the diaper is easy, although just to be safe I pin a baby blanket to my front to minimize any potential damage. Dressing, her, now- that's just plain fun. I locate an adorably impractical white cotton dress with a thick ruffle along the hem, tiny puffed sleeves and a beautifully-embroidered smock front. I just about swoon over it before I carefully dress her in it, tying a matching bonnet onto her head, and coo over the baby doll result.

"You're just the sweetest, most adorable baby . . ." I gush, until Michael, newly shaved and, if I do say so myself, dashing in khakis and a shirt that matches my dress almost exactly, enters, and approaches us.

"She's going to be the vainest little girl in Sackville if you keep that up," he complains, wrapping his arms around my waist. It feels good, so I don't protest, lifting his daughter up instead for a proper inspection.

"But isn't she just the most incredible thing you've ever seen?" I demand, and feel his smile against the back of my neck.

"She's one of them . . ."

Such a flirt, that man.

O0O0O

The Gavins' house is adjacent to his private practice, a really lovely Victorian-style home that's probably a lot younger than it's been built to look. The barbecue is taking place in their large backyard, and Paul is already manning the barbecue with the help of a ginger-haired, goateed man who is joking with all the women bringing in salads.

"What are we, ladies, rabbits?" he teases, and raises an eyebrow at what my husband is holding. "A pasta salad. Well, at least we'll get some more palatable carbohydrates, anyway. How are you two doing? Or, should I say you three?" He grins at Emily and uses his free hand (the other holds a fork with which he is testing burgers) to tap her on the nose. Eyes wide, she grabs his finger with both hands, and concentrates on it.

"Hey, Rose!" he calls to a dark-haired woman on the other side of the yard, who is chatting with Patti from my dream and calmly shifting first one leg then the other off the ground to make room for the children who are scampering across the lawn, "your baby's here!"

"Emily?" she hurries over and relieves me of my burden, beaming down at my daughter with delight. "Oh, Sydney, she's grown so much. Look at that face!"

I obey willingly, as do several other women and a few teenaged girls, all of them coming from different parts of the yard to coo over the new arrival. Emily, it seems at first, will be busy with her public all evening, but then Rose's own daughter arrives with her husband and their new baby, so eight-month-old Lilah takes some of Emily's fans off her hands. In other words, the two are in constant circulation, and after a few nerve-wracking moments, I decide that this must be nothing new, since Mike doesn't appear panicky, and allow myself to relax a bit.

Dad arrives not long after we do, bearing a bottle of sparkling water and a plate of uncooked ribs, the former drawing cries of delight from the ladies, and the latter from the men. He passes them to the appropriate people, and somehow confiscates Emily from a lady who, moments ago, had bared her teeth whenever somebody so much as glanced at my daughter. Then he comes over to us, the tiny ruffled creation nestled against his broad chest as if she may very well stay there forever. And I know that if he wants her to, Dad will let her- nothing, but nothing, is going to get past that man. Now that he's wearing a dress shirt tucked into khakis, I can see that he, like Michael, has kept very much in shape since leaving LA. In the face of his impressive physique, I decide that wouldn't want to have to face him in a fair fight- I would more likely than not lose, if he was actually willing to hurt me. Now, though, it's more of a comfort than anything, since I plan to entrust my child to him for God knows how long.

"The diaper bag is in the car," I explain. "You can grab it when you're leaving, and take her carrier, and- Daddy," I hate to ask, but I have to. It's the mother in me. "You- you'll take good care of her, won't you?"

He looks as hurt as I've ever seen him do. "Sydney, I know that when you were growing up I wasn't exactly close with you, but-"

"No, Daddy, I'm not talking about us. I- you'll- She's my baby, Daddy." Oh, no, I'm going to cry.

But then Michael's arm is around me, tightening until I draw my shoulders back, and take a deep breath. "So please- you'll protect her?"

"Sydney," he smiles, putting out the hand that does not hold Emily to rest on my shoulder, "I would die before I let anybody hurt her. As I would you. Okay?"

Actually I am, now.

"Uh-huh," I nod, smiling bravely. "I think maybe I'll go talk to somebody now, okay?"

They nod, so I leave quickly, heading over to the least threatening-looking section of the yard- that where the children are gathered around a beautiful black-haired girl, about two and a bit, whose right foot is encased in thick white plaster, and whom I assume is Amy Gavin. She beams up at me as I approach, and clenches and unclenches her fingers in a child's wave.

"Syd-ee!" she giggles, and tries to walk forward. At once there are five children around her, preventing her from moving.

"No, no, Amy, you can't walk, okay?" one of them informs her, making her pout, and flop down heavily on a diapered bottom.

I smile, lean in, and scoop her up to me. She smells like candy and baby shampoo, and she presses her little face into my neck, making me sigh. Tiny arms twine around my neck as I address her in a conversational tone.

"How's that foot, huh, Amy-girl? Been bugging you, huh?"

"Uh-huh," she grumps, nodding. "Tan't walk."

"No, and I bet that makes you mad."

"Uh-huh. Tan't wear soos, needer." She sticks out her bare toes for inspection. "Mommy say I try'n run 'way."

"Do you?"

"Yup. Wanna run. Mommy an' Daddy won' let me."

"No, because then your foot will hurt more, right?"

"She hasn't been wearing any shoes since she broke it," puts in one boy with thick, gleaming black hair, who is sitting next to Sam from Michael's class earlier that day. "Lori says she kept trying to run the day the cast was put on, so they took off her shoes so she couldn't get very far, since the pavement's so hot."

I smile, and rub noses with the unwilling invalid before I surrender her back to her keepers, and glance over to see how the two men at the barbecue are doing. And it's funny, because at that moment, something clicks, and I am startled at how easily some things fall into place. I am also startled at how I blocked out several repetitions of my name until somebody finally tugs on my hand to get my attention, forcing me to look down.

"Sorry, I was thinking of something. What- what was that?"

"Will you play a game with us, Sydney?" begs a red-headed girl.

"Oh, Sweetie, I don't think that I will right now. I- there's something I have to do. Maybe in- well, who has a watch? You, Sam? I'll be back in- well, fifteen minutes, okay? If I'm not, you come and find me, all right?"

This seems fair, so I set off across the lawn, towards the two chefs of the evening.

"Ah, Sydney," Paul Gavin beams at me, his left eye sparkling good-naturedly, "will it be a hamburger or a hot dog?"

"Hamburger, please, and Paul, could I possibly see you privately for a moment? It- it's rather important."

He gives me an odd look, but nods. "Of course, Sydney. Come right inside."

I do, and he takes me through a beautiful kitchen, down a hall, and into a sort of private study, closing the door, and gesturing at a chair in front of a paper-strewn desk. "Have a seat."

"Thank-you, but I'll stand." I look around.

"Is this- what is this in regards to?" he wants to know.

"I-well, suppose I were to say that bits and pieces of my memory had already started to come back."

"Really? That's- that's terrific!"

"Really?" I squint at him. "Is it? Or are you saying that to see how much of it _has_ come back?"

"Sydney, I have no idea what you're-"

"Oh, yes, you do." I am marveling at how it just sort of came together. Even though I can't remember it, I can see exactly how it must have happened, and if I weren't so furious with the man, I'd probably sit down and have a good laugh over it. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. I'm talking about that black eye of yours that you said Amy gave to you."

"She did!"

"No, she didn't. Not in an argument over shoes, anyway. Any argument she may have picked regarding shoes would be held with your feet toe-to-toe, not toe-to-eye, because she hasn't been wearing shoes for two weeks, and that black eye is nowhere near two weeks old."

"Now, how would you know how old-"

"Believe me, when you've had as many black eyes as I have, you know exactly how old they are. That one isn't any more than a week old, but we both know exactly how old it is, don't we, Paul? It must be seven days old exactly, because I gave it to you on Friday morning when I was jogging, didn't I? Otherwise, Mike would know exactly how you got it, because I would have told him. And if I had, he would know what we both know already. That Amy didn't give you that black eye. I did."

"Sydney, I would like to run a series of tests to ascertain you didn't suffer a concussion when you-"

"Oh, don't you give me that," I scowl, advancing on him, pleased to see him pale, and back up ever-so-slightly. "You try and pass me off as delusional, and I'll have you in traction in three seconds flat- if my father doesn't put you there first."

How many thirtysomething women still use their fathers to threaten lecherous less-than-gentlemen? Not many- maybe none beside me. But you have to admit, Jack Bristow is ample reason to brush up on your courtesy towards his daughter. Paul flinches as I go on.

"Now, to be perfectly frank, I can't recall exactly why I hit you, but I'm guessing it wasn't because I felt threatened by you. So you must have done something to really tick me off- like hit on me."

I see the flicker in his eyes, and I am satisfied that I've hit the nail right on the head.

"You tried to pick me up, didn't you?" I am half-smiling, half livid with rage. "You thought I'd actually- well, that I'd do something like that to Mike, Emily, Lorraine, and Amy? You did, didn't you, you contemptible little . . ." I trail off, shaking my head in amazement to keep myself from hitting him again.

"Obviously," I muse, "I disabused you of that notion, but what I don't get is why I didn't head straight home after. You came to talk to me when I was jogging, right? I mean, it's the only thing that makes sense. So why didn't I go home right away to tell Michael, unless- you came when I was on the bridge. Or by it. And you were leaving when he attacked me, and- you saw it! You insufferable- you saw him throw me over, and your precious ego was so wounded by me actually preferring my own husband to you, that you just kept on going! You- I ought to- ooh!"

I whirl around, my fists itching to plough into his face, but me restraining myself with every ounce of willpower I possess. "You're just lucky I'm not my father," I growl at last. "Get out of my sight."

"This is my house, and I have every right-"

"GET OUT!" I scream at him, grabbing him by his shirt front and spinning him, slamming him up against the door. "You saw him, you could have stopped him, or at least scared him off, but you didn't. Now, because of your stupid, stubborn _pride_, I can't even remember being a family with the three people I love most in the world! Get out before I _throw_ you out!"

He does, running, and showing no signs of stopping. I make it out into the hallway before I have to lean my back up against the wall, and, breathing heavily, slide to a sitting position on the floor. I stay there for I don't know how long before I am found by a petite blonde with delicate features and big, china blue eyes. These are large with worry as she bends down and asks, her voice soft and sweet,

"Sydney? Are you all right?"

I can't seem to focus on her face for a second, but then my vision clears, and I can see her in such vivid detail, even the tiny pores on her nose are visible.

"Yeah, I'm- I'm fine. I just- I need to step outside, and clear my head. It's so humid . . ."

"Oh, of course," she breathes anxiously, helping me to my feet. "You know, I think I saw some rain clouds gathering over toward Nova Scotia. Wouldn't that be nice, if we got some rain?"

"Uh- yeah," I mumble, then realise she is leading me towards the back yard, which is the same way Paul went, so I dig in my heels. "Uh, could I go out on the front step, maybe? I just- there's so many people, and- I just got a little light headed, you see."

"Of course," she repeats herself, still sounding worried. "You know, maybe Paul could help you. Would you like me to go get him?"

"No," I say, choking back near-hysterical laughter, "I don't think that getting Paul would be such a good idea right now, but thank-you for offering all the same. I just need to sit, and- rest."

"Yes, of course," she murmurs again, and sees that I am comfortably settled on the step before excusing herself.

That, I decide dimly, must have been Lorraine. She was really very pretty, and seemed an absolute sweetheart- I couldn't see why Paul would ever feel dissatisfied with her. But then, it takes all kinds to make a world.

I rest my head against the chilly wrought iron railing and breathe deeply, all but tasting the thick, sweet smell of an approaching shower. It's going to be a big one, too- I can see the thick, black clouds swirling together not too far away, and moving ever-closer. Paul Gavin's barbecue is going to be rained out, and even I, with my years of lies and life-or-death acting performances, can't really pretend to feel sorry for the man at this point in time. Instead, I am thinking about the man, whoever he was, who pushed me off the bridge. Could it have been Paul himself? I doubt it. He may be reasonably well-built, but I could kick him from here to Baffin Island any time of day with one hand tied behind my back. I'm sure of it.

So I still have some faceless, nameless enemy out there who I have to deal with, and that prospect does not appeal to me at all. In fact, I'm not even sure I can make it through the barbecue. I am just contemplating locking myself in Dad's car until Labour Day when Mike comes running around the side of the house, concern written all over his face.

"Sydney, what's wrong? The kids say you promised to play a game with them by now, and Paul came running out of the house looking like your father had just worked him over. Then Lori came out a few minutes later, and asked me if it was - uh - that time of the month for you, because you seemed really dizzy, and she had to help you get outside." His face is pink, so the fire I feel in my own cheeks must mean I am nearing a crimson hue, but I am really past caring.

"Well?" I ask, arching an eyebrow. "Did you come out here to ask me if it was?"

"I- well, no, but- um, is it?"

I can't help a snort of laughter, despite lingering urges to hold Paul Gavin's head in the water under the swan pond bridge until he is the least of my worries. "No, it's not. But I found out how Paul really got that bright purple lamp he's sporting."

"You did?" he does a double take. "What do you mean, how he really-" he breaks off, those three adorable wrinkles appearing. "I'm not going to like this, am I, Sydney?"

"No, maybe not."

He is looking a question at me, so I take a deep breath, and let him have it.

"I gave it to him."

The breath rushes out of him with a hissing sound, and he sinks to the step beside me.

"Well."

"Yup."

"So- you assaulted an MD. I wonder what the penalty for that is."

"I dunno- probably not as stiff as the penalty for an MD coming on to one of his patients. And a married one, at that."

"What do you mean? Who did he- oh, no, Sydney, you don't- he- no, way." He is shaking his head in a desperate plea for this to be not true, and I am treated to a living picture of my core feeling over the past few days- this is a nightmare. I will wake up, and I will remember all of this as a normal part of my life, not some twisted, crazy dream, being fed to me in bits and pieces. But that isn't how it's happening for me, and it's not how it's happening for my one and only, either.

At last he looks up, the wrinkles still present, and sighs. "All right. Let's take this one step at a time. Paul- tried to pick you up."

"Yes."

"Do you actually remember that happening?"

"No, not really. I thought, for a minute, that I could picture him in front of me, when I had my back to the bridge, but that might be just my own projection of what happened."

"Possibly, but- whoa, he did that by the bridge?"

"Yes."

"The bridge as in, the bridge you fell off of bridge?"

"Was pushed off of, yes. That bridge."

"So he-"

"Saw everything. Yes. I'm fairly sure."

"So you could have drowned, as far as he knew, and he didn't help you?"

"Right."

"That - that-" he searches for an adjective or noun strong enough to express his rage, but not so strong that it would compromise his principles, and simply can't find one. He throws up his hands in mute rage, and I nod understandingly.

"I felt about the same when I first figured it out," I reassure him. "But now we have to figure out a way to get him to co-operate with the police sketch artist, so we can see if he saw the same person Lisa did."

"I'll get him to co-operate," Mike promises grimly, and the knuckles of the fists he makes bleach bone white.

"Fine. Maybe Dad can help you. He'd like a project, I think. But for now, I just want to go home, okay?"

"Sure. Why don't you take the car, all right, Sweetie? Jack can drop me off himself."

I nod, and accept the keys. "Thanks. And- explain things to Lisa when she gets here, won't you? Tell her if she doesn't mind, I'd like to keep Honey for the next few days, at least."

Mike promises he will, and we stand up. "Be safe," he urges me. and I nod.

"I will. I promise."

Then, before I can really stop and think about what I'm doing, I lean over, and kiss him. For real. When I pull back, he gives me a twinkle-eyed smile that just about wipes what's left of my knees out from under me.

"I won't be long," he promises, making me smile. "I love you."

"I love you, too," I tell him, and this time, it's not a thought, or a question, but a truth.

I like it like that.

O0O0O

I get into the car just as the first fat raindrops start to fall, filling the air with that sweet-steel taste that always preludes heavy rain.

That's why I start it up right away, so I can set the wipers working on the windshield.

And that's why I don't hear Mike's cell phone ringing, or him answering, or his barely-controlled responses to the news he is receiving.

And that's why, when I drive out onto the street, and head towards our house, I don't hear Mike as he starts shouting my name, and so have no reason to look in the rearview mirror, and see him running after me.

So that's why, when the man runs out in front of my car, and levels his gun directly at me to make me slam on the brakes, I am frankly quite shocked when I see his face.

And that's why, when he wrenches open the passenger side door and climbs in, keeping the gun trained on me all the time, and orders me to drive, I still say nothing, but simply comply.

Because it's somebody I had honestly not considered at all.

O0O0O

O0O0O

That's all I have for you for now (if you're mad at me, that's okay, I'd be mad at me too!) but keep checking back because I promise there is more to come (I'm nowhere near cruel enough to just leave it like that, I promise). Any guesses as to who it is? I'd love to hear them- I know who it is, but it's fun to watch you guys try to figure it out! Sorry, yes, you can throw things at me now.

I would also like to say a little thank-you to the Town of Sackville for playing a part in my story. It's a gorgeous little place, and I wouldn't mind raising my kids there- when they come along. If you're ever hovering in that area of Canada, you should go check it out (I picked 87 Bridge Street for Sydney and Vaughn's home. Just imagine the lilacs are there, okay?)

Have I missed anything? Tell me, and please keep reading.


	5. Chapter Five

O0O0O

_I get into the car just as the first fat raindrops start to fall, filling the air with that sweet-steel taste that always preludes heavy rain._

_That's why I start it up right away, so I can set the wipers working on the windshield._

_And that's why I don't hear Mike's cell phone ringing, or him answering, or his barely-controlled responses to the news he is receiving._

_And that's why, when I drive out onto the street, and head towards our house, I don't hear Mike as he starts shouting my name, and so have no reason to look in the rearview mirror, and see him running after me._

_So that's why, when the man runs out in front of my car, and levels his gun directly at me to make me slam on the brakes, I am frankly quite shocked when I see his face._

_And that's why, when he wrenches open the passenger side door and climbs in, keeping the gun trained on me all the time, and orders me to drive, I still say nothing, but simply comply._

_Because it's somebody I had honestly not considered at all._

O0O0O

"So, Pigtails," he says conversationally, "what have you been up to since we met last?"

I am still rather numb, so I don't answer right away.

Oh, I try to answer. After all, he's armed.

But my mouth just works open and shut, and no sound comes out. This seems to amuse him rather than annoy him, which is probably just as well, since the man is holding a gun, after all, and he never struck me as being completely stable to begin with.

"Surprised, arentcha?" he grins, and I have to nod.

"Yes, I- I am."

"Yep. I thought to myself when I got out of there, 'I'd better find Pigtails, because from what I've been seein' on CNN, she was pretty instrumental in taking down my old buddy Arvin.' And you were, werentcha, Pigtails?"

"What do you want, Cole?" I grit through my teeth.

"For you to turn left, for starters. And after that- well, you just sit tight, and you'll see what I want soon enough."

"I could crash this car." I point out, turning left and merging slowly with the traffic on the Trans-Canada.

"But you won't," he smiles, and tilts his head toward the back seat. I glance in the rear view mirror, and see something that stops my heart cold. Emily, lying in her bassinet, sound asleep.

"You won't crash this car, Pigtails," he tells me quietly. "Because if you do, there's not a chance that cute little baby of yours is going to live through it. See, I saw that big guy from back at SD-6, that Jack fellow (I never forget a name, Pigtails) bring out that baby in her little basket thingy, while you were still inside the house, and put her in his car. I knew it was your baby, 'cause I've been watching you for a while, so I thought I'd be a nice guy, and put her in your car for you. Only- I think I forgot to fasten that basket thingy down properly. So maybe if you try and crash this car, you'll survive, and you'll get to see your cute little girl die. Not a pretty death, either, I think, nope."

He settles back, the gun resting easily on his arm, and I feel mildly nauseous.

"You- why?"

"Well, I could get real poetic if I wanted to, and say a whole bunch of stuff about avenging myself on you, but really, Pigtails, it's just a simple business proposition. I am going to hire you to do a job for me, and you are going to do it so you can earn your little girl and your happy suburban lifestyle back. And, since you seem pretty attached to both of those, I think you might even be getting the better end of the bargain."

"You'd never let me go." I am trying to convince myself as much as him that I have nothing to lose. "Never. I know who you are. You'd kill me before you ever let me go."

"Well, I think that by now that husband of yours has figured out who I am, and you don't see me going back to kill him, do ya, Pigtails? No, I'm staying here, with you, and your little girl. What's her name, anyway?"

I say nothing. I don't trust myself to say anything.

The next thing I know, the gun is digging into the side of my neck. I suck in my breath, and mutter,

"Emily."

"Emily. Now, that's real cute. Emily- I like that. Not like those stupid names for girls- Cody, or Kyle. Never liked boys' names for little girls. What's your name again, Pigtails? I heard it on the television when they found out what good old Arvin was up to- it was a boy's name, wasn't it?"

"Sydney." I reply, wisely choosing to disregard the fact that the man who just claimed he never forgot a name forgot mine.

"Sydney." He tries it out.

"Well, maybe it suits you. You- you could pull off a boy's name. You're not so much pretty as you are just plain hot. The baby, now- that's a real pretty baby, Sydney. She looks like an Emily. You must be real proud to have such a pretty baby."

"I'd love her no matter what she looked like," I say quietly. "Even if she looked like you, I'd do my darndest to love her."

"Ooh- touché, Pigtails," he grins, and smiles.

I don't like that smile at all.

I drive a little faster.

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

"Hello?" I answer the call on my cell as I hear the car door slam shut, and Sydney starts the engine.

"Is this Agent Vaughn?"

"Yes, it is. Who is speaking?"

"My name is Agent Anthony Kirk, Agent Vaughn, and I believe that you recently contacted the San Quentin Correctional Facility requesting prisoner status. Is that correct?"

"Yes- a Mr. Sark. Have you got news for me?"

"Well, Mr. Sark is safe and sound, but when we ran a background check on your name, just to clear that you were who you said you were, another name came up that I thought you might want to know about."

This is not good. I feel it in the pit of my stomach.

"What name is that, Agent Kirk?" I demand.

"Well, you and your agent were involved, were you not, in the apprehension and arrest of one McKenas Cole. Am I correct?"

No. No, no, no, no, no. Please, God, no, don't let it be true. I couldn't handle that. I couldn't, I really-

"Agent Vaughn?"

"I'm sorry. Yes, Agent Bristow and I were responsible for bringing him in. Why?"

"He got parole last week, Agent Vaughn, and I'm afraid he skipped out on us. We have no idea where he-"

I drop the phone, and run after the car, but she can't hear me shouting her name.

I round the corner in time to see somebody run out in front of her, and get in the passenger side once she slams on the brakes. Then the car continues on, much faster now, and I didn't have to see Sydney's kidnapper's face, because I am only too positive that I know exactly who it was.

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

I'll skip over a lot of the car ride. I mean, really, what's there to tell? It was mostly carried out in silence, although halfway through he did find a classical station on the radio, and snapped his fingers along with Vivaldi. It shorted out towards Moncton, though, and he lost interest, so I reached to turn it off, so the static wouldn't bother me. Instead, I missed the dial, and hit one of the auto-programmed radio buttons. It was set to 100.9 and the lyrics that came out seemed familiar, even though I couldn't for the life of me have sung along with them, so I left it there.

Anything familiar at a time like this . . .

He makes me get off the highway when we reach the airport exit ramp, and I feel a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach, because the Moncton Airport is international. Flights take off from Moncton that go all over the world, and it the world, I think, feeling like I might maybe throw up just a little, is big enough that he could lose us so effectively, Mike and Dad could search for the rest of their lives and never find us.

I can't do much of anything about it, though, because he has a gun, and even though I do wonder how he plans to get us on a plane carrying that thing, I figure that I'll find out soon enough.

I'm right- it turns out that he doesn't even need the gun to keep me under control. Instead, he tosses it into a garbage can . . . once he has a firm grip on Emily's bassinet.

I don't know if you have children of your own, or if you have nieces, nephews, or cousins, or are just good friends with some little kid down the road. It doesn't even matter which, because I believe that the result is the same, and that if you have or are any of these, you know how much you are willing to sacrifice for that little person who means more to you than anything else in the world. I walk along as meek as a little lamb, and don't even squeak a protest as we are boarded as Mr. and Mrs. Jones and Baby, with the passports to prove it.

__

Mike's and my baby

So that's the reason why, when the plane lifts into the air, and the landing gear is busily folding under us, I am struggling mightily not to burst into tears.

O0O0O

, is all I think firmly to myself. And I don't plan to forget it, no matter how long we are away from him- there is no way I ever could. _But you did_, a nasty little voice inside my head snickers. _You forgot all of them_.

I sleep for a lot of the flight. It's a sort of personal defense mechanism, I think- so I won't have to look at Cole, and remember that the last time I saw him, he had been lying flat on the floor of the Credit Dauphine parking garage, blood trickling from his mouth from the decisive kick I had delivered to his head.

Well, I guess it sort of works- at least I don't have to look at him.

I am woken by the stewardess (or are they called flight attendants now?) and she asks that I put my seat up.

"We're just over Boston now," she explains, "and it's standard procedure, Ma'am, to have your seat in an upright position."

I sit up, not bothering to tell her that I am well versed in airplane standard procedure, and extremely thankful that I never seem to require time to recover from a deep sleep, but can hop up at a moment's notice, with not so much as a yawn.

"Did you sleep well, Honey?" Cole asks, and you will never know how much willpower it is taking to not slam him up against the wall, and put an end to my troubles right here and now.

But he's been cradling Emily in his arms for who knows how long, and is still doing so. I would kill myself before I let him hurt her, so I give him a dirty look, and say nothing.

"That's what I love about you, Dear," he drawls, "you're always so _cheerful_ after you've had a little shut-eye."

That just about does me in, but I crunch down on my tongue to keep it under control, and the pain and taste of blood recalls me to my senses.

I calmly spit a few red droplets out on his shirt.

"Just so you know, I am soon going to find it necessary to resort to physically restraining myself to keep from hurting you if you continue to make comments like that," I explain in a tone that is really quite sociable for me, especially when one considers my situation.

"So consider yourself as having been duly warned, okay, Darling?"

He makes a face at me (and I had thought he couldn't get any uglier) and gives me a shove to get me out of my seat.

"Reach into the overhead compartment," he instructs me, "and get out Emily's seat."

I do, and pass it to him, telling myself that braining him with it is not a viable option right now. I watch him buckle her in, and we leave together, stepping out into Logan International Airport and a crowd that's so big I wonder if Cole hired extra people just to come and overwhelm me.

Customs is a breeze- there's something in elderly customs ladies that makes them feel sorry for nice-looking girls with cute babies and ugly husbands, I think. I hope desperately, as I did in Moncton, that Cole will have to put down Emily's seat so he could walk through the detector, but the same things happens as before. He does, but takes her out of it, so she is still with him, and I have worked myself into a homicidal steam by the time we get into a taxi.

"Now," he explains, as we glide through the crowded city streets, "I am going to drop you off at your hotel. You'll have to check into your room by yourself - you're registered there as Carole Hart, all righty? - since I'll be taking Emily to her babysitter. She's gonna stay there until we work out the details of our contract, okay? I don't want to have to lug her around all the time, and I really don't feel comfortable leaving the two of you alone, so that's how it's going to be. _Capis_?"

I say nothing to him until we get to the hotel, where I reduce myself to begging. When it comes to my daughter, I don't think that pride is such an issue as it used to be.

"Please, just let me hold her, Cole," I am trying not to cry, "Only for a second. What could I do to you in a second?"

"You did a lot to me the last second we met," he says coldly, and points to the door. "Out."

"I am going to kill you," I decide. "If Mike or Dad don't get to you first, I think that I am actually going to kill you. Okay? Good? Just as long as we're quite clear on that."

I get out, give him a sunny smile and a cheerful wave, and watch them disappear into the traffic.

Then I walk purposefully into the hotel, suddenly feeling very, very dangerous.

O0O0O

My room is very nice- somebody is paying Cole well. It's got everything I couldn't possibly need, plus some very luxurious necessities. Speaking of which, the bed is an expansive King, which makes me cringe, but I decide that even somebody that ugly has got to have sense enough not to push it- unless that last kick rattled what brains he had.

The first thing I do is locate the Gideon Bible in the bureau drawer, and pull it out. I have no idea what I am going to do with it, but it seems as good a time as any to brush up on my homework. The next thing I do is pick up the phone, and I find that I am allowed to dial out. I am not sure, though, that somebody might not be listening, so I hang it back up, and debate what to do. After all, I can't even remember my own phone number- how can I call home?

And even if I could, and did, what could Mike do? There's no way he would be able to find Emily in a city this large. Not even if Dad and I both helped him. Not before Cole got to her first.

Discouraged, I flop back on the bed, and flip open the Bible. It falls open to the beginning of the first chapter of Joshua, and I start at the top. I don't get too far, though- I stop at Joshua 1:9 where it reads,

__

"I command you- be strong and courageous! For the Lord your God is with you wherever you go."

And it's funny, because for the first time in a week, when I could very well find an excuse to cry, I just can't find the tears or energy to do it- and with a promise like that being thrown at me, I really don't see the need.

Instead, I fall asleep.

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

Sometimes, I just think that my life would be better off without me in it. I mean, it isn't as if I'm doing anything wonderful with it- I'm really starting to wish that it wasn't even mine.

I did, of course, sign up for the CIA fully aware that death might be one of the risks- after all, my father had died serving his country. I could honestly think of no better way to go at the time.

But what they hadn't told me - hadn't known themselves - was that I would be assigned as handler to a beautiful, tender, more than self-sufficient, incredible young woman. That I would be the only reality she knew, except for her father, as she fought against people who had used her, and betrayed her. That I would fall hopelessly in love with her, and that she, miraculously, would feel the same way about me, and that, once we destroyed her employers, we would get married, and try to live happily ever after.

Nobody had mentioned, because they hadn't known, that instead of a fairy tale, my life would turn into a game of hide-and-seek. That just when we settled down into a nice town with good friends, a great home, and a new relationship with the God who loved us enough to bring us this far alive, things would start to ruin everything.

Things like somebody pushing my wife - my life - off a bridge, and wiping from her memory all traces of our life together. And that same person, or persons hired thereby, stalking, attacking, and finally taking her, so now I am a complete wreck, and my father-in-law not much better.

The police are asking us questions - half the force was at the barbecue, anyway - but I can't even understand the questions, let alone think of coherent answers to them. Sydney is gone, and, we know now, so is Emily.

Gone where?

I don't want to think about that- especially since I know who took them there.

Greg is asking me now if I know who took them, and I wonder how many times he's had to ask each question before it even computes.

"I- yes. I got a call just as she left. A man we- we put away got parole two weeks ago. He- it was him. I know it was."

"What do you mean, put away?" Carl wonders. "Were you witnesses?"

Now is not the time to smile, but I do, anyway- a bitter, twisted ghost of a smile.

"Not exactly."

"Then-"

"You need to sit down," I decide. "There's- a lot I have to tell you."

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

Cole wakes me up by banging on the door and threatening to kick it in. I am tempted to let him make good his promise, and see how much longer we're allowed to stay in the hotel, but think better of it. When I let him in, I see that he has a manila envelope in his hand, which he gives to me.

"In there is everything you're going to need. You read it, you do the job, and I tell you where your baby is. It's really that simple."

I hold the envelope, and look at him, wondering if it can really be healthy for a human being to hate anybody as much as I do him right now.

"Why me?" I ask finally. "Why pick on me?"

"'Cause I like you, Pigtails. You got spunk, and you're good at whatcha do. Or, did. Whatever. Anyway, you better be good enough to pull this off, or you go home alone. I'll leave you to do your homework, now, okay? I'm right next door, so holler if ya need me."

Then he is gone, and, for really the first time in my life, I find that I am actually contemplating cold-blooded murder as a viable solution to my problem.

And frighteningly enough, it suddenly doesn't seem like such a terrible thing.

O0O0O

The file he gave me is detailed, and it takes me the rest of the afternoon to go through it, even though the primary directive is ridiculously straightforward- he wants me to steal something for him.

That's all.

I can't quite believe it, and read it twice, but yes, that's really it. He just wants me to steal something.

Oh, it will be a reasonably complicated procedure, but nothing I haven't done before. I was expecting something more devastating, like planting a bomb, or something. But instead, he wants me to rob some rich lady in Italy of a vase- just a little blue and silver vase, if the picture he provided is accurate. He's even given me a blueprint of her luxurious villa, as well as security specs, and detailed colour photos of the premises, taken from every angle imaginable. If it's going to be that easy, I wonder why he doesn't just do it himself.

He has also provided me with the same passport he used to get me out of Canada, all other necessary identification under my fake name (where on Earth did the man get my drivers' license photo?) a credit card, the keycard to my room, a note suggesting I go "buy myself something pretty" and three plane tickets.

The plane tickets are what hold my attention the longest. One entitles me to a round trip to Italy, and the other two are one way tickets to Moncton. They are made out to Mrs Jones and Baby, and for the first time I begin to wonder if maybe he's actually telling the truth- that he plans to let us both go home when we're done.

Maybe he is. But I don't want to take the chance of trusting him, and if possible I'd like to avoid stealing the vase, since Italian prisons aren't exactly five-star quality, but at the moment I don't see how I can. Instead, I fit the credit and key cards between my foot and sandal, along with my new drivers' license, and head out into Boston to look for a purse, and some clothes that actually have pockets in them.

O0O0O

Boston in the fall is pleasant.

Boston in the winter is charming.

Boston in the spring is wonderful.

But Boston in the summer is just plain yucky.

I knew that before, but now it is confirmed for me firsthand. It's hot, it's noisy, and everybody is sweating at least as much as you are, if not more, so there is a general stink to the place that really gets on my nerves. Never mind the gorgeous architecture, or the sights in general- when you're preoccupied the begin with, the last thing you want to deal with is a smell that clings like Boston smell does.

Shopping is even not sufficiently distracting to completely take my mind off of things, but I try and do the credit card justice. I buy a purse first, and a wallet. The Post-It note attached to the credit card named a rather generous limit, so I feel no compunction whatsoever about heading straight to Saks for even my most basic needs. It is more of an act of spite, though, than a trip for enjoyment, because I am still too worried about Emily to concentrate on really spending money properly.

I eat lunch out, and can't help but wonder what the nicely-dressed people in the restaurant would do if that normal-looking lady with all the shopping bags and the new purse that probably cost more than her own wedding dress suddenly jumped up and shouted that she had been kidnapped by a man who, five years ago, had staged a hostile takeover of the secret company she had worked for before she found out they murdered her fiancé, and so went to work for the CIA, where she fell in love with her handler, whom she married, and had a kid with, who had now been kidnapped so she wouldn't do just that. Wouldn't stand up and say all that, I mean.

Well, I'd be safe from Cole, but Emily wouldn't, and they probably don't give really good visiting hours in mental institutions. I also happen to know for a fact that the food in them is pretty foul, so I stay seated, and keep quiet. I'd probably have run out of breath and passed out from that mouthful before I finished saying it anyway, so it's just as well I didn't.

Instead I finish my lunch, pay the bill, and walk back to the hotel.

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

"I cannot believe it," Greg says for about the fortieth time, shaking his head numbly. The reaction my story gets from all the other barbecue guests, crowded inside the Gavin house to avoid the rainfall, is about the same.

"CIA?" Patti asks, dazed. "Wow."

"That explains a lot," Lisa decides, frowning. "I mean, the three of you moving here together, and never really leaving once you got here, except for that one vacation. And of course, Sydney. It explains Sydney."

"What do you mean, it explains Sydney?" Rose wonders, so Lisa tells her what happened when Short, Dark and Ugly decided to take a stab at my wife.

"She saved the youth group, too, remember?" Emma reminds us all. "That time with the Josh, and the gun."

"And that explains you, Jack," Dan laughs, "Remember that time the car backfired, and you knocked about five people to the ground to get to Sydney and Emily, and cover them?"

Are Jack's cheeks actually _pink_? It's something I've never seen before, but it's far from my top priority right now.

"The fact remains," I say pointedly, "that because of what she was willing to do for her country, Sydney has made herself some very nasty enemies, and one of them has come back. I don't know why, and really, that is the least of my worries."

I give Paul a sharp glare to let him know that such will not always be the case, and I've got to say it gives me a good feeling to see his good eye shift to the side as I go on.

"Sydney is my only concern at this point- Sydney, and Emily."

"Can we do something?" Patti wonders. "I have friends in the States, and I know Debbie's whole family is there . . ."

"Mine, too," another person towards the back pipes up, and another admits to having friends, and so on, until we figure out that there are at least seventy-eight families spread out all through the States, who could be counted on to give us a hand if we need it.

I think of the CIA, and their so-called safe houses, and how many people have been found even after they thought they were safe (though we aren't supposed to tell them that when we stick them in the houses, of course).

I nod.

"Thanks. I think that, when we find Sydney, we might need to take you up on that. But for now, prayer is about all we can really try for. And if we can find anybody who saw anything - like, what direction the car took - that would be good too. Okay?"

There are nods of agreement all around, and it looks as if it's settled.

"Good." I sigh, sitting back. "Now, I'm going home, but I'd appreciate it if we could maybe meet later tonight and come up with a plan of action. I still have- friends in the CIA. And other places. So we'll see what we can do. And everybody-" I mean this, I really mean it, and I only hope that they can tell. "Thank-you."

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

I leave tonight for Italy, and because I still do not trust Cole, I am desperate to get a hold of Mike, or Dad, or anybody, and at least give them some chance to come and find Emily.

A wild thought occurs to me just as I am riding the elevator up to my room- what if one of them kept the same cell number? Obviously they would have had to change plans, since I don't know of any cellular providers who operate in both countries, but maybe, just maybe, if they requested it specifically, the number would stay the same.

It's a better chance than I have with anything else, so when I get into the room I head straight for the phone, and I try Dad's number first because my father hates change, so if either of them is more likely to keep his existing number . . . but Dad's is out of service. So I hang up, and then, with trembling fingers, key in the number that I know so well.

It rings.

So either Mike kept the same number, or they assigned it to somebody who is going to be very surprised when he hears from me.

Speaking of hearing- are those footsteps I hear? Coming toward my door? Please, no . . . But I'm trained for this sort of thing. I know better than to doubt myself.

Sure enough, just as the connection is made, my door opens.

So it's Cole, and now whatever I say he will hear. Any place name, anything out of the ordinary- it will tip him off, and I'll never see Emily again. Maybe I'll never see anybody again.

I'm ready to throw the phone against the wall out of sheer frustration when I hear it.

Mike's voice.

My husband.

My husband, saying "Hello?" at me as if it were any other day, and any other telephone call, and making me wish that my life were the most boring, normal one on the planet, and I the most regular person in the world.

Then the door opens, Cole enters the room and sees me, standing there, the phone to my ear.

With my husband on the other end.

I can't say what I need to.

I can't say I love him, I miss him, I wish harder and more desperately than I have ever wished for anything in my life that I could just run home to him, right now, with Emily held safe in my arms and have everything be sweet and simple and so impossibly ordinary, rather than the hellish tangle of a mess that everything really is.

I can't say what I want to.

So I say the only thing I can think of.

"Joey's Pizza?"

O0O0O

O0O0O

Well, what would _you_ have said?!

I know it's kind of short, but I'll be away for a while, and I wanted to post what I had done. If there's a delay in posting, please bear with me, I promise I'll be back as soon as I can to wrap it up. Thank you again for the great reviews! I have had some wonderful ones, and a few e-mails that really made every late night worthwhile. You know who you are- your thanks deserve my own. Thank-you very much.


	6. Chapter Six

O0O0O

_Speaking of hearing- are those footsteps I hear? Coming toward my door? Please, no . . . But I'm trained for this sort of thing. I know better than to doubt myself._

_Sure enough, just as the connection is made, my door opens._

_So it's Cole, and now whatever I say he will hear. Any place name, anything out of the ordinary- it will tip him off, and I'll never see Emily again. Maybe I'll never see anybody again._

_I'm ready to throw the phone against the wall out of sheer frustration when I hear it._

_Mike's voice._

_My husband._

_My husband, saying "Hello?" at me as if it were any other day, and any other telephone call, and making me wish that my life were the most boring, normal one on the planet, and I the most regular person in the world._

_Then the door opens, Cole enters the room and sees me, standing there, the phone to my ear._

_With my husband on the other end._

_I can't say what I need to._

_I can't say I love him, I miss him, I wish harder and more desperately than I have ever wished for anything in my life that I could just run home to him, right now, with Emily held safe in my arms and have everything be sweet and simple and so impossibly ordinary, rather than the hellish tangle of a mess that everything really is._

_I can't say what I want to._

_So I say the only thing I can think of._

_"Joey's Pizza?"_

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

My heart stops.

Has that ever happened to you? Your heart stops, breath stops with it, and a little vein up in your right temple starts to throb like a sonofa . . . like a great big throbbing thing, but you barely feel it, because all you can feel is how hot and cold you are. It seems like a million years goes by but it's only a couple seconds, and nobody else can tell you're having some kind of stroke or something.

Then you hear yourself talk.

"Sorry," I hear myself say, "wrong-"

Then I break down, and I've got to be crying, but I can't even tell, I'm just totally numb.

"Sydney, where are you?" I demand. "Are you all right? Are you and-"

"Okay, I'm sorry." She is heart-wrenchingly neutral-sounding. "I must have dialed wrong. Bye!"

Then she's gone. And I can't turn the damn phone over fast enough to check my Caller ID.

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

How I get through that call without twitching so much as a cheek muscle, much less breaking down and crying my way into the New Year, is beyond all human comprehension, but I do. Then, purposely ignoring Cole's presence, I then I dial the operator, and listen to her blasé greeting, my heart pounding as I speak.

"Hi, I'd, um- I'd like those pizza place numbers again, please. I got a wrong number for the last one."

"Forget pizza," Cole orders, eyeing me suspiciously, "they'll feed you on the plane."

I hang up, but then I turn to face him, and snort in disbelief.

"You think I eat airplane food?" I demand incredulously of him. "I used to get more frequent flyer miles in one year than most people have in a lifetime. You don't get a record like that without learning something, and believe me you, airplane food is not only bland and tough to chew, it's Russian Roulette in a little plastic carton. I'd rather eat in the airport, thank-you very much, or in Italy, once I get there. Which reminds me- where am I staying?"

If he's suspicious of my sudden compliance, he doesn't show it.

"It's in your notes."

I refer to the file, and see the details laid out before me for my stay in a smallish, highly-priced, beautifully-remodeled chateau tucked away in a little corner of backwoods Spain that is not only incredibly exclusive, but probably charges an arm and a leg just to breathe on its front door.

My eyebrows twitch in spite of myself.

"Ooh, very nice." I approve, shutting the file and dropping it next to my shopping bags. "Who's your boss, huh, Cole? Some South American antiques dealer who doesn't care what it takes to get his hands on what he wants? Or do you have a little stockpile of your own that you're using to finance this little expedition, mm?"

He narrows his eyes at me.

"Not that it is in any way at all your business, but my employer is a very well-connected art collector whose name does not concern you. Suffice to say I am being very well-paid for working for a person with no political affiliations whatsoever- a refreshing change from my last employer."

"Ah, yes. The Man." I can't avoid that bitter taste in my mouth that appears whenever I say those words, but to my surprise, Cole makes no comment. Of course, I reason, we took him down before I met up with Mom again, so it's entirely possible he has no clue about my relationship with her. And wouldn't it be funny if that were the case? Because, no matter how comfortable Mom might feel about having her goons conk me over the head and cuff me to a chair so she could threaten to take away what little excuse for a life I had left, I have a sneaking suspicion she might not be so lenient towards a former employee who did the same.

This thought entertains me as I all but force Cole from the room so I can take the tags off my new things and store them in my luggage. Then I make sure there's nothing else lying around, but that's just force of habit- it isn't as if I came in with my arms laden with goods, or anything, now, is it?

A quick check of my watch informs me that I had better get moving now, since I have decided I will eat at the airport before getting on the plane. Airport food might not be much better than airplane food, but fewer people, I think, have been hospitalized because of it, and a record like that can't help but appeal to me.

So at a quarter of seven I call the front desk and arrange to charge a limo to my room (I am still feeling angry with Cole, after all, and with his nameless employer as well, who, I assume, is footing the bill).

I am heading down when Cole pokes his head out of his room, and addresses me calmly.

"By the way, Pigtails, if you're planning on phoning somebody from your hotel in Italy, or something, that's fine with me. You can even trade that ticket of yours in for a one-way back to your little piece of Canadian paradise- I really don't care. But you should know that if your husband or your father or any of your other compadres show up around here, I can promise you I won't be giving them visiting hours with your kid. Are we clear?"

We're so clear I almost crack his head against the doorframe, but instead I hurry down to the front doors without so much as a facial spasm, where the limo arrives promptly, giving me something to focus on besides my predicament.

As my things are loaded into the trunk, I look around at everybody else on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. Some of them look angry, some happy, some are tired, in pain, impatient . . . The list goes on. I wonder what I must look like- a reasonably tall woman with average everything and a limo being loaded for her.

Do I look like you would expect such a woman to look?

Or do I look like a woman who can't remember anything of the past five years of her life, and whose husband is now probably half out of his mind wondering where his amnesiac wife and daughter have been snatched away to?

It's food for thought, and I chew it all the way to the airport, where I check my two bags at the terminal and then set off deeper into the airport to find a pizza place.

I need a good pizza place right now.

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

The name on my phone is the Ritz-Carlton, but it doesn't say which one, so I flip my phone open again, hit the 'send' button and listen as the phone bleeps and bloops the number so slowly I want to smash it under my foot just to make it hurry up.

"Ritz Carlton, Boston. How can I help you today?"

I hang up without even bothering to say anything and I look over at Jack, who's all but got his nails in his mouth.

"Boston. He took her to Boston."

"Fine. Call the airport, and find out when the next flight is. We're going to be on it."

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

Alone on my bench at the little airport pizza place, I do seriously consider calling Mike and telling him everything, but paranoia is setting in, and I can't bear the thought that I might provoke Cole to do something to Emily, so I sit perfectly still, keeping my eyes focused on my not-too-chewy pizza until I am done.

Then I pass through customs without a hitch, and sit bolt upright in one of those little blue plastic chairs until they call my flight to board.

This is going to be a long night.

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

If I'm going to be honest, I'd have to say that I don't even like flying on a good day, and this has got to be one of the longest flights I've ever taken in my life.

I wonder how Jack is making out- we couldn't get seats together at the last minute, and maybe it's better that way. We get along okay, but we aren't exactly best friends or anything, and when Jack's tense he tends to hit things, so I can't say I envied whoever did end up beside him. I guess we were lucky to get on the flight at all, though I know we'd have both ridden in the baggage compartment if it had come down to that (no, really, Jack checked out security around the loading area, just in case).

We hadn't even been sure we'd make the plane on time, since Lisa convinced us to take the time to stuff a few things into overnight bags before we took off. It was a really Sydney-ish gesture, really, and that upset me a bit, I guess, so Lisa had to take the time to pull me aside and say that Jack and I were actually stressing some people out with the total uncertainty of the whole thing.

"And remember," she said, "if you find you'll be a while, or you think you need some extra hands, or you want me to contact somebody, just call, okay? You know Tom and I will both be right there."

It's comforting, somehow, to have that promise, but not as comforting as a shorter flight would have been. Nothing, I am sure, could be taking longer than this stupid flight.

Worst of all, the extra time gives me lots of space in which to do some wondering.

I wonder if Cole had been in the room when she Sydney had called me. He must have been, or she might at least have said the name of the city where she was.

If she was still there.

Maybe Cole had suspected something. Maybe he had taken Sydney and Emily somewhere else entirely, and this whole trip was for nothing.

Maybe I'm not going to sleep again until I find my wife and daughter.

I sit up a little straighter, and try to ignore the low mumbling coming from the mouth of the sleeping, middle-aged woman beside me.

This is going to be an excruciating flight.

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

They board us at half past eight, which means they're running fifteen minutes behind schedule. I don't mind. It isn't as if anybody in Italy is expecting me, or anything.

I find my seat without issue, smile at the little old lady and her little old husband who are my seat mates, stow my purse under my seat, and sit down.

I don't know how I do it, especially with my nerves on a razor edge, but the second I buckle my seat belt, I let my head fall back against the head rest, and before I know it, I'm fast asleep.

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

We get into the airport on time, and as our flight taxis down the runway I can see another airplane taking off, heading North. Stuck in my seat without much else to do I end up watching it until it's out of sight, and then turn my attention to business at hand.

I'll have to find Jack, of course, once I get off this thing, and then we'll have to find this friend of his who promised to put us up for the night. Or nights.

I'll have to contact the CIA sooner or later, or they'll never let me hear the end of it, and- the list goes on, but somehow, when we step out of the terminal, all I can think about is Sydney.

I have to find Sydney.

Sure, Vaughn. In a city of I-forget-how-many million people, that shouldn't be too hard at all, right?

Right.

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

If I hadn't been so preoccupied when I landed, I might easily have been thrilled to be in Italy again. The country is not so much a place as a variety of sensations thrown at you all at once- sights, smells, and sounds all conspire to sweep you off your feet, and make you forget what you were trying to escape in the first place.

But some things are just too important to forget, even in the face if a greasy market vendor thrusting greyish-looking pasta in your face, and colorful children scampering underfoot.

Because I have my own child to consider, and I can hardly wait until the sun sets, and I can get down to business.

But here it's only six o'clock, so I have a long wait yet.

I check into my hotel, order some spaghetti even though the last thing in the world I want to do right now is eat, and wait for nightfall.

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

For obvious reasons, Jack and I decide that neither of us can go poking around the Ritz-Carlton, looking for Sydney. If Cole saw us, there's no telling what he might do to Sydney or Emily. So instead, Jack hails a taxi, and tells the driver to take us to Acorn Street.

"Acorn?" I am surprised. "Jack, where'd you meet this guy, Yale?"

"Yes, actually. We . . . go back. I was the pallbearer at his father's funeral because one cousin was all of five feet, and the other men were more my height. He told me then that if I ever needed anything I was to come to him, and- I need something now."

We both do.

I sit on the edge of my seat, silently urging the cabby to go faster.

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

When the lights of the city finally turn on, and a rich, royal blue blanket studded with thousands of stars covers the sky, I can prepare for my night out.

First are the black separates I purchased today, all of them Gucci, and all of them the latest rage in burgling attire (joke, people, okay? I've had half a decade of my memory bank deleted. How do know what people are wearing these days? Well, they're probably wearing clothes like I'm wearing, but I don't know what they wear to break in places)

Then I locate the penlight I bought, as well as the Swiss Army knife, and a few other potential necessities, all of which fit neatly into the black leather fanny pack I strap to my waist and slide sideways to conceal under the semi-fitted leather jacket.

I slip an elastic around my wrist and one in my hair, pulling it back from my face, and go out the door.

It feels oddly comforting to be working once more.

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

Jack's friend is overjoyed to see him. No, overjoyed is an understatement. He's ecstatic.

A big, brawny Irishman with a shock of red hair and a ruddy complexion even after countless years of running his father's corporation, Ryan Hanson is more than welcoming. So's his company- there seem to be about fifty children running around the place on a state of perpetual sugar-high as we enter, and Ryan's wife explains that their twins, a boy and girl, are turning seven today, so they had their classmates over to celebrate.

Then she goes to locate her reserves of ibuprofen and Ryan shows us up to a pair of guest rooms at the back of the house, which, he says, are ours as long as we need them.

"And don't you worry, Jack," he promises, "I'm not about to pry into what you and your friend are doing here, but if you need my help with anything, just give me a hoot and a holler. Cis and I are right down the hall."

"Thank you," Jack nods, his words terse but his expression actually pretty friendly, for Jack. "And let me introduce my son-in-law, Michael Vaughn. Mike, this is Ryan. Ryan, Mike and I are- we're here to - collect my daughter and granddaughter."

"Really? So you and Laura had a baby, then? What's her name? And how is Laura anyway?"

"Her name is Sydney, and I really couldn't say how Laura is. She- left. Thirty years ago."

"Jack," Ryan looks startled and awkward all at once, and I wonder when he actually last talked to Jack. Or maybe they just never discussed their wives. "Look, I didn't know, I-"

"No, forget it." Jack brushes it off like Ryan forgot he took his coffee black, or something. "Now," he nods toward the staircase, "where are those two children of yours? I can hear them all the way up here- we might as well take a look at them, too."

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

I have never seen anything so scrumptious as the villa that sprawls before me. Never. Well, maybe my husband. But the villa comes a really close second.

It's made, as near as I can tell with the security lighting, from some sort of yellow stone, and is roofed in red clay tile. There is a wrap-around veranda on both floors, so getting in should really be a snap, if I can avoid the twenty security guards and the ten German Shepherds patrolling the place.

The lady of the house certainly doesn't scrimp on security, but by the time I've scaled the second floor balcony and entered by way of an open window into a darkened room, I am beginning to wonder if she's getting her money's worth.

Closing my eyes, I see the floor plan of the second storey as clearly as if it were lying in front of me. I must be in Guest # 7, I decide, and if that is the case, the vase is only twenty yards away, in the sitting room down the hall.

I slide up to the door, press my back against the wall, and cautiously peek out into the dimly-lit hallway. Nothing meets my eyes save for beautifully-patterned marble floors, exquisite knickknacks on polished teakwood tables, a few exotic plants and walls the colour of overly-creamed coffee, so, keeping both ears open and a sharp eye out, I slip out into the corridor.

No matter how poor her selection of security guards may be, the house's owner, I conclude, has exquisite taste, and it crosses my mind to wonder what sort of person, exactly, I am robbing. I hope she isn't about eighty, with a weak heart and fifty adorable grandchildren all over the countryside who will cry their little eyes out if Grandma goes into cardiac arrest when she finds out her vase has been stolen. What if it was a wedding gift from a favourite aunt and uncle? What if- I shake my head fiercely.

__

Stop it, Sydney.

I chastise myself firmly. _Emily's worth more than a thousand vases. Now, just grab it, and get out of here._

I reach the door, and position myself on the side with the door handle. A tip- always stand on the side without the hinges. That way, whether the door opens in or out, you always have the jump on anybody who's coming through.

Nobody comes out, though, so I slip inside, and look around the softly-lit room. It, like the hallway, is exquisitely decorated, with a perfect blend of comfort and sophistication. There are upholstered antique divans, gleaming mahogany end tables holding priceless _objets d'art_, and a few taller tables showcasing the larger valuables. Nothing is glassed-in, wired, or anything, and the result is an overall feel of casual opulence, if that isn't too much of an oxymoron.

I don't have any trouble finding the vase I'm after- it's set right in front of a window curtained with muslin sheers, and it gleams softly in the room's sumptuous lighting. The silver threads that run against the rich blue of the background wink and twinkle, and the design is one of exquisite simplicity. I love the colours and the overall look of it, and even if it isn't the most valuable piece of pottery on the face of the Earth, it surely must be one of the prettiest.

The funny thing is, Cole doesn't strike me as being the sort who goes in for 'pretty' alone. So what does he want with this vase?

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

Jack very kindly leaves me alone upstairs in my room, probably feeling safe because there isn't any window for me to jump from. Instead, there's lot of halogen floor lights, and I use them to study the pictures I carry in my wallet.

By the way, I've got what Sydney calls a "chronic case of 'Dad wallet'" even though my daughter is only three months old. My wallet is stuffed with extra picture booklets, all of them filled with shots of Emily, Sydney, and the three of us together. There are also a few of Jack and Donovan, but most of them are just of my two girls. I've got Emily sleeping, eating, smiling, and crying. I have her in hats, in dresses, in overalls, and even in nothing at all. I have Sydney smiling, pouting, laughing, waving, holding Emily, holding Donovan, scowling, throwing something at the camera that pretty much blocks the view frame (she was a little cranky that day, but our insurance company, wonder of wonders, actually covers PMS, so the pictures I took after that were even better quality than before).

I spread these pictures out all over the bedspread and study each one, drinking every detail that I've already committed to heart. I could walk blindfolded into a room filled with a thousand women and babies, and pick my two out without even hesitating.

I'm filled with a sick, cold, calculating rage towards McKenas Cole at this moment. He was brutal enough to Sydney before he really knew her, and all she had done was turn him down for a date. Now that he's had five years to ponder the humiliation of her laying him out flat on the floor of the Credit Dauphine parking garage, I doubt that he's in any sort of a forgiving mood.

One small comfort is that Sydney is by no means out of shape, and though she's never told me as much I always sort of suspected that she still thinks of herself as an active agent, even though she knows she's not. She should be able to defend herself, and I know that whether or not she remembers Emily, she definitely loves her, and I'm pretty sure she'd give her life in defense of her.

Not that I want her to- the last thing I want is to find out that I've found them too late. But I do know she will do everything she can to keep herself and Emily alive until they can get away, or somebody can find her.

This brings me to a whole new concern- whether or not Sydney fully realises how different our relationship really is, now that I'm not an active agent.

I hope she realises that I _will_ come to find her- that protocol and regulations no longer keep my hands tied, and my feet chained to my desk. She never did the damsel in distress thing too well, and it was always one of the things I loved best about her, but since we got married she's learned to rely on other people at least a little bit. Sometimes she can even relax and let me worry some for her. And didn't she say that she liked the wrinkles I got when I did?

A glance in the mirror confirms that they're there right now, and in spite of myself, I laugh.

It feels strange to laugh, but it does relax some of the extreme tension in my back and neck, enough so I can lie back on the bed, the pictures of my two treasures surrounding me, and force myself to shut the world out and grab a little sleep.

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

I really hate to pick up the vase, but I would die if anything happened to Emily. The comparison makes it a lot easier for me to lift the little ornament to the muted light, and examine it quickly.

Only about seven or eight inches high, it could hardly serve as a milk jug so it must have been made to be a decoration, since I can hardly imagine what flowers would both fit in and compliment it. I tie it snugly to the leather strap that crosses from my left shoulder to my right hip, give the room one last, admiring glance, and slip noiselessly out into the hall.

I run into a small problem, however, when I discover that the room I stepped into minutes before is now occupied- at least, I can hear little sounds coming from inside, as if somebody is walking around, and straightening things up. The maid? Maybe, but I have no desire to run into anybody, most especially if he or she is huge and hulking, so I consider it prudent to keep moving, and look for a vacant room from which to make my exit.

Taking care that my shadow doesn't fall against the patch of light leaking in through the slightly ajar door, I move quietly on, further down the hall.

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

Dreams. That's what I'm having. Lots of wonderful dreams.

Sydney.

Sydney, saying "Look, Michael, I was just wondering- have you ever thought about getting married? I mean- to me?"

Jack.

Jack, with that dangerous scowl on his face as he growled,

"Mr. Vaughn, I have the utmost respect for you as being a highly capable and admirably dedicated agent of the CIA. But when it comes to romantic matches for my daughter, as far as I see it, there can be no such thing as good enough. There can only be potential. And as things stand now, you are the most potential-filled young man I have met. But that does not change this fact one bit- that if you ever do anything to hurt my daughter; anything at all to make me regret my not cautioning Sydney against marrying you; I will make you wish you were dead. I will make you beg me to kill you time and time again until I am so out of alternative ideas, I will kill you simply from lack of options. Are we quite clear?"

Then, as I nodded quite seriously, the appearance of that faint crack in the icy exterior as he had extended his hand, and said,

"Welcome to the family."

The wedding- the happiest day of my life, save two.

Moving to Sackville, and bumping into Lisa, who cheerfully offered to take pictures of two perfect strangers, and to help them find a house, telling them that the one next to hers was up for sale.

Moving in.

Sydney directing the movers with all the panache of a drill sergeant, and allowing a similarly-sized margin for error.

Settling in, renovating, experiencing more problems and pitfalls than anybody had ever told us we would have, and more moments of true bliss than we had dared to hope for.

Lisa and Tom dragging us to their fortress of a church, and convincing us to give God a chance.

God turning the tables, and giving us a chance.

Sydney running into the bedroom at three o'clock in the morning, a blazing smile on her beautiful face lighting the room like no sun ever could, and taking a flying leap to land on my stomach.

"I'm pregnant!"

"What?" (this between gasps for the breath she had knocked violently out of me).

"Pregnant, Michael, I'm pregnant!"

"Wh- you're- you- _how_, Sydney?"

"Oh, come _on_, Michael- and you a French boy, too!"

That beautiful stomach that made so many other women groan when they were wearing it, but made Sydney twice as radiant as usual.

The gorgeous little life it held finally greeting us both with two healthy squalls and flailing red fists, all of which brought tears of joy and a broken video camera (labor makes that woman really, really violent).

Life afterward- truly perfect.

Until-

Cole.

Pushing her off the bridge, wiping out all of that. Stealing things we treasured above all else- things that shouldn't be able to be stolen.

And now stealing her from me a second time- taking away what was left of her, now that he had already taken away five years of her.

Taking Sydney, and my daughter.

I start up, gasping, in a strange bed and a strange room that take me a moment to recognise as the one I fell asleep in. I find somebody turned the lights out for me, and the whole house is now silent, except for my ragged gasps for air.

Shaking, I lie back against the pillows.

Sleep is not going to come so easy, now.

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

The hallway, I discover, wraps around inside at least three of the villa's four walls. I make a right turn, and find another stretch with rooms on both sides, similarly decorated. Most of the doors are closed, but some are open, and I make my way to the first one, and glance cautiously inside.

Nobody is there, but, because it's in the right hand side of the hallway, neither are there any windows. The closest door on the left is closed, so I have to continue on for another six or seven yards before I come to a door that is both open, and located on the right-hand side of the corridor.

It's empty, and I slip inside, moving over to the window. I am out on the upper-level veranda in a twinkling, and can see a flight of stairs only steps away.

I take two before a heavy weight comes crashing down on the back of my head, landing directly on the still-tender swelling caused by my plunge into a tiny stream in Sackville, thousands of kilometres away.

Stars explode inside my head, and just before the dim light is extinguished completely, I see Cole's mocking face above me on the bridge, Paul's face as it had looked minutes before that, and everything else that came before it . . .

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

Up.

Sitting bolt upright, in bed.

Shouting her name.

Am I dreaming? If so, Jack has the same dream, because he's running into my room, Ryan's bleary-eyed wife right behind him. Cecily promises that Ryan can sleep through anything, but she's followed two sleep-tousled twins who apparently can't.

"Mike?" Jack asks, concerned, bending over me. He's not wearing much of anything, and though Cecily doesn't seem too bothered, it just doesn't seem right, so I shake my head impatiently.

"I just had a nightmare."

"I'll say!" beams the little boy, grinning all over his freckled face. "We could hear you all the way to the nursery! My baby brother's bawlin' his head off right now! Wow, Mister, where'd you learn t'scream like that?"

"I was scared," observes his sister without any noticeable judgment.

"Sorry," I say, feeling that it is somehow an inadequate sentiment, but a necessary one nonetheless. Jack cuts in impatiently, suggesting that maybe somebody should stay outside the door (somebody being him, I suppose) "just in case" (and what case that would be I have no clue. Sleepwalking, maybe? Taking off in an unconscious state to try and rescue my wife and daughter? Whatever the case, I assure him that I am quite all right by myself).

"Mike, are you sure-" Jack demands, and I cut him off.

"Jack, I'm fine. Now, go and put a bathrobe on, if you really will insist on mounting guard by the door all night. You're scaring the little girl half to death."

The little girl was actually quite placid-looking, but as awareness returned under the glare of the bright lights her mother was becoming vaguely agitated, and Jack nodded reluctantly, promising that they would let me get back to sleep.

"Would you like some warm milk, Mr. Vaughn?" Cecily offers vaguely, giving her children a gentle shove in the direction of the door, but I shake my head.

"No, thanks. I just- I need to get some sleep, and I'm sorry I've been keeping you from yours."

"No," she yawns, "that's fine. You must be- (_yawn_) very close with your wife if you (_yawn_) miss her like this . . ."

Then she's gone, and, after one last glance at me, so is Jack, and I am again in a dark, quiet room, listening to their footsteps recede down the hall.

I don't think, at first, that I'll be able to get back to sleep after this, but I'm incredibly tired, and there are times I surprise even myself. Apparently this is one of them, because before the clock reads one, I am again fast asleep. And this time, I stay that way until morning, for which fact, I'd be willing to bet, Mrs. Hanson and her children are supremely grateful.

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

My head hurts.

It hurts, and it's dark in here.

Isn't this where I came in?

Only I'm not alone, and I know exactly where I am.

And I can remember.

Everything.

My whole, entire life in beautiful, blessed shining order stretching out behind me- at least, in as orderly a fashion as a life as erratic as mine has been can be laid out.

That's why, when I open my eyes, I am actually smiling.

Even though there are two security guards bending over me, uncompromising looks on their scowling faces.

I think my smile sort of knocks them off balance for a second or two, but they recover, and the one on the right addresses his associate in brusque, rapid tones.

"_Andare e prendere la signora. Dire lei abbiamo preso una donna esce della sua camera da letto._"

The listening guard nods, and takes off - presumably to go get his employer - while the speaker helps me, not roughly, to my feet, and motions for me to seat myself on the canopied bed.

Judging by the excellence of the bed, and the furnishings around it, I am most likely in the bedroom of the lady of the house- no wonder the guards were stationed outside that particular window.

I eye the guard with curiosity, and address him in friendly tones.

"I speak Italian, and I'd be happy to help you- I bet you have questions you want to ask me. I wouldn't even mind answering them, now that I probably know the answers to them. But I've got a splitting headache, so I really don't feel like diving into a whole other language at the moment. Do you speak English?"

He gives me a suspicious look.

"_Si, Signorina. Un poco_. A very leetle beet."

"Well, that's all right," I sigh. "I guess I can talk around this headache if I absolutely have to, though I suppose your boss must know somebody who speaks English."

"_Si, Signorina. La signora, parla Inglese. Il suo italiano è molto , ma la signora parla Inglese migliore._"

He sees my pained look as I mentally stumble over the words, and tries to translate.

"The lady - my lady - she speak English. Italian too, yes, but no so good as English, you see?"

I see.

"Your boss- she's an Englishwoman, then? Or maybe she's American, or Canadian, or Irish, or- I'm sorry, _Signor_, do you even understand what I'm asking?"

"_Si, un poco, Signorina_."

"_Signora_." I correct, displaying my left hand. "And- is she?"

"_La Signora_- I theenk no English. She ees American, I theenk, but notta sure, you see?"

Again, I see, and would have gamely pursued this line of questioning further, despite the language barrier, had the other security guard not returned with all speed, the woman who signs his checks following closely behind him.

He steps aside to let her enter, and I look at her face experiencing a feeling that is something akin to amazement. She, too, seems honestly startled to see me, but then her facial features relax, and she speaks.

"Well," she sighs, half -amused, half-regretful, "it _is_ a small world, isn't it? How are you, Sydney? How have you been?"

And I think that if there is a record for blacking out the most in one week or less, I must be holding it, or at least severely contesting the record-holder, because here I go again . . .

O0O0O

O0O0O

Ooh, I just live for cliffhangers. I know it's a totally cheap plot device but they keep you coming back, don't they? So what if it's not such a puzzle as it was last time? And so what if maybe you know who it is, or at least have a pretty good idea- you still want to find out what happens next, right? Poor Syd- I keep knocking her out! But she's tough, so I think she'll be okay in the end.

And, in case you are wondering how I managed to update when I said I was going away, I actually hauled my whole computer along for the ride, and brought a disk with me so I could upload at the local library. Is that dedication, or what?

I also want to apologise for how much I hopped back and forth between Syd and Vaughn's POVs, I always hate it when people do that and I thought I'd never do it myself, but I wanted to try and create a rough parallel between their nights, and I couldn't really pull it off any other way. It won't be so choppy in the following chapters- there's going to be more of a block of Syd, block of Vaughn, and so on- not little snippets of each.

Have I missed anything? Tell me, and keep on reading!


	7. Chapter Seven

O0O0O

_He steps aside to let her enter, and I look at her face experiencing a feeling that is something akin to amazement. She, too, seems honestly startled to see me, but then her facial features relax, and she speaks._

_"Well," she sighs, half -amused, half-regretful, "it is a small world, isn't it? How are you, Sydney? How have you been?"_

_And I think that if there is a record for blacking out the most in one week or less, I must be holding it, or at least severely contesting the record-holder, because here I go again . . ._

O0O0O

When I come around, it can't be more than a minute since I fainted, and she is now bending over me with a concerned expression on her face.

My face.

Or, pretty close to it, anyway.

"Hello," I say, really quite calmly for any circumstances, much less these, "how are you, Mom?"

"I asked you first," she points out matter-of-factly. Then, "can you sit up?"

"Mm-hm," I struggle into an upright position. "So- you live in Italy now, do you?"

"Yes, I do."

"Mm." I say, then look around me. "Nice home you have here- you have some lovely things."

"Why, thank-you, Darling. I do try. And this would bring me to my next question- what were you doing breaking into my house, Sydney? Not that you have answered my first questions, either- how are you, and how have you been? It's been- well, it's been almost four years, hasn't it?"

"Give or take a month, sure. And- I've been better."

Then I tell her.

Everything.

I tell her every single thing that has happened in my life from the last time I saw her, on my wedding day, right up until now, still not quite believing that it's all there in legible, retrievable form.

When I'm done speaking I think that perhaps it would have been better if I had tried to space it out a bit, because she suddenly looks on the verge of either bursting into tears, collapsing, or hopping on the next plane to Boston to deal with Cole herself.

"Well." she says at last. "Let's take this thing one step at a time, all right?"

I nod, and she starts 'stepping'.

"So- you live in Canada now. Good. It's a lovely country, and if it weren't for all those bloody _moose_, I might just have settled down there myself.

"Next- you're a university professor. Well, good for you. But don't stay up too late grading papers- it does some terrible things to your eyes, my dear, believe me.

"Moving on, your father's doing the same thing, and I suppose that at his age a few little bags and wrinkles won't change the overall tone of him anyhow, will it?"

Now she takes a deep breath, and the wry humour vanishes as quickly as it came.

"And- I'm a grandmother. Fine. Actually- good, Sydney. I'm very happy for you. All of you. Her name- Emily?"

"Emily Hope Vaughn, yes."

"Mm. Pretty," she allows grudgingly. "Does she look like anything you?"

"A bit, but she also looks like Michael."

"Well, either way she can't go wrong, I suppose. And Michael himself- he is where?"

"I left him in Sackville, but if he managed to trace the call I made to him, he's probably in Boston by now."

"I have not a doubt of it. And- he has absolutely no idea as to where you are, the poor man! Sydney, how could you _do_ that to your husband?"

"Oh, _I'm_ sorry," I say sweetly, "that was just awful of me, wasn't it? But of course, the next time a madman runs out in front of my moving vehicle, levels an automatic at me, and abducts both me and my infant daughter at gunpoint, I will be sure to leave detailed directions to his hideout posted on the fridge. How thoughtless of me to have overlooked that, Mother, and do accept my thanks for pointing it out to me."

"Don't get smart with me, young lady," she frowns, as if I were about thirteen, instead of thirty-odd. "I was just thinking of how Michael must feel- going half out of his mind wondering what's happened to you. I've often felt that way myself, you see. But I _am_ sorry," she adds, as an afterthought, "if it was callous of me to put it like that. Now- what to do?"

I don't have time to answer her before she herself decides what we are to do, and really, I'm quite frankly amazed at how quickly she leaps into action. One minute she's casually sitting there in front of me, wearing some sort of negligee-type thing, the next she's managed to get herself fully clothed, banish the security guards to unseen corners of the massive house, and take me into a well-lit sitting room with semi-comfortable furnishings.

"Sit," she instructs me, pointing at a leather sofa. "We need to figure this out as quickly as possible if we're to get anything constructive done here. You were due to fly back to Boston when?"

"Tomorrow- or, rather, today. At five-thirty in the morning."

She checks the mantle clock.

"An hour left before he'll expect you to be on that flight. Well, I think we will have to have you arrested."

"You _what_?"

"Not _really_, Sydney. For crying out loud, girl, settle down and think for a second."

"Mom, condescension is probably not the best road to take with me at the moment," I warn through gritted teeth, and she has the grace to look repentant.

"My dear, I am sorry. I just- well, I'm an organizer. A planner. A doer."

"Type A?"

"Don't push it, Sydney Anne."

"Sorry, I just- can I use your phone, Mom? I need to call Mike, and tell him-"

"No. Take a deep breath, Sydney, and try to think things through very carefully. Emily is your chief concern right now, and I do not trust either you or Mr. Vaughn not to lose your heads over her, no matter how unintentional that action might be. We need somebody who will not be recognized by Cole to locate her, and get her out of wherever she is safely. Then you can call Michael and tell him where you are."

"And I will be where, exactly?"

"For all intents and purposes, you will be in jail. I am friends with the police here, and I will see to it that they will be more than happy to allow us to use their phone for you to contact Cole, and they will also confirm whatever story we cook up. Cole needs to think that there has simply been a temporary setback- one that will give us time to get both you and Emily somewhere safely, while we can figure out how to catch Cole, and find out what he was after."

"I know what he was after," I shrug, reach in under my jacket and producing the vase. Her eyebrows arch into two sculpted lines of surprise as she accepts it.

"Mm. I see. Very- interesting. Do you know why he wanted it?"

"No, I don't, I-" I break off, watching what she does with fascination.

She tilts the vase over until it is upside-down, and chips carefully at the lacquer on the base with her fingernail. A tiny portion of blue clay crumbles away, revealing an itty-bitty alcove that houses a miniscule switch. She flicks the switch back, there comes a faint, metallic click from within the vase, and the whole thing separates into two halves, making a crack about a half-centimeter wide along the length of one of the twisting silver lines. If she were to pull the halves apart completely, she explains, I would be able to see the interior, and a smallish false compartment set in the ceramic base- roughly the same size and shape of a woman's compact. But, she claims, it's a pain to get it all back together again, so she's just going to give me the general idea.

"Clever, isn't it?" she smiles, seeing my honest surprise. "For all that it's really quite a small compartment, and sometimes it seems like it's more trouble to reassemble than it's worth, it really is . . . ingenious. What's more, anything you put in here is completely undetectable; there's a composite in the clay that negates the X rays. I suppose Cole is smuggling nowadays, then?"

"He- he said he was working for an art collector."

"Quite possibly. Besides being a reasonably valuable piece in its own right, this would allow anything small, like a ring or necklace, to be smuggled in or out of a country undetected. It's really an ingenious little thing- I've used it a few times myself."

"I'll bet you have," I sigh.

"Cole was actually the last one to be the courier," she murmurs, as she joins the tiny separation in the vase with a faint clink, and returns the switch to its proper position. "He took it to Venezuela, holding a little something I wanted delivered to a friend of mine as a token of my esteem. I used the vase because I wasn't entirely certain that the man who had gotten it for me had done so in a legal fashion, so I wanted to be careful."

"I'm sure you did, Mom," I sigh, as she settles the vase in her lap. "How will you cover up the lever?"

"A little clay, a little paint, and some glaze- nothing to it."

"Fine. But about this jail thing-"

"Yes, yes. I'll contact the police right away, and work the whole thing out. We'll stop in so you can call our mutual friend, Mr. Cole, and tell him you were unavoidably detained by the local constabulary, but that you are certain you can bargain your way out within two or three days. The truly excellent news will be you managed to hide the vase before you were caught, so you can go back and retrieve it before you fly back to Boston. If he calls the police to confirm your story, then believe me, my dear, they will confirm. Then you and I will get on a plane, and fly somewhere. I'm not sure where, but- somewhere."

"And Emily?"

"Is there somebody in - what was it, Sackville? - you are sure you can trust?"

I think of our church family, the people who were at the barbecue, Mike's colleagues, and my own, and I can hardly keep from grinning.

"I can think of a few."

"Then we will arrange for one of them to take a vacation in Boston. We ourselves will be outside the city - possibly even outside the country - but once you have settled on somebody, and they have arrived in the city, we'll put them in touch with your father, and he can help them locate her. I say your father because, nice though Michael may be, he _is_ Emily's father, and I therefore do not trust him anymore than I trust you not to do something foolish for the sake of your daughter."

I think of Dad, and how he looked when Emily was born- like he was sitting on Cloud Nine, and happily swinging his legs over the side. I think of his inability to so much as hear her squeak without worrying for her safety, comfort, and emotional wellbeing. I picture the consequences of letting my father know you kidnapped his granddaughter, and wince.

"Actually, Mom, you might be better off to trust Mike."

She looks at me searchingly, then nods.

"Yes. I almost forgot what your father looked like when you- were born."

She is silent for a second, but then composes herself quickly.

"Right. In this case, then, I think it would be best if we were to contact them only once we actually have Emily ourselves. Then they'll be more interested in coming to us, rather than seeking Cole out, and even if they take the latter course of action, he can't retaliate using Emily. Does that sound good to you?"

I admitted it was feasible, and she nodded, satisfied.

"Good. Now, let me pack a few things, and I'll just make a phone call, and then we'll be on our way."

O0O0O

It really is that simple.

Are you surprised?

I mean, with most women "a few things" is about half the contents of their dressers. But in the space of ten minutes, Mom filled a smallish duffel, made a phone call, and then summoned her car, which was chauffeured by a gorilla-type man in a uniform.

Can you just picture that? A gorilla in a uniform, I mean. Funny, right? Well, it was. It would have been unspeakably rude to laugh, but you'll never know how hard it was for me to contain myself.

Before we left, one more thing happened to reassure me as to our relative nonexistence for at least a day or two. Mom turned to the plump pair by the door who I assumed were the butler and housekeeper, and addressed them both briskly.

"Maria, Miguel, there may be people coming around the house or calling to speak with me within the next day or so. You will tell these people that _la Signora_ is ill and confined to her bed, suffering the loss of valuables when her home was burgled this very night. You will take any messages, but explain that these cannot be returned for at least two days, possibly more. Then you will phone them to me at my cellular number, and I will choose myself which ones I will reply to, you understand?"

They did, and assured her of this until she believed them, and we left in the car.

"_Policia_, Alfonso," she instructs the uniformed gorilla, and he grunts obligingly. Then we settle back, and watch the ever-lightening Italian countryside pass the windows of the antique Rolls. Presently, Mom speaks to me.

"You- you wouldn't have picture with you, would you? Of Emily, I mean?"

"No. I was leaving a barbecue when Cole grabbed us, and I only had what I was wearing. I mean, my purse was in the back seat, but he made me leave that, so- no. I'm sorry."

"Oh, that's fine, I'll see her sooner or later," she promises. "I mean, I- I'd like to, anyway."

"I'd like you to, too," I admit. "I really would. She- I love her, Mom."

Oh, no, I'm going to cry. And is that the police station we're pulling up in front of? I'm going to walk into the police station crying. Great.

"I know you do, Sydney." Mom says quietly. "I know very well that you do. Now, I need you to take a deep breath, compose yourself, come inside with me, and get this done as quickly as possible. We still need to figure out where we're going from here, and we haven't a lot of time in which to do that. So stop crying, and let's go."

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

In the morning I feel like something scraped off somebody's shoe, but I'm more or less alive, and after a shower and a shave I can even pretend I'm human.

Sort of.

A ridiculously huge breakfast helps, though I can hear her all the way through the waffles and the Eggs Florentine- _"Vaughn, I did not marry a man, I married a human garbage disposal! How can you eat so much and stay so _thin _is what I'd like to know! I mean, what is that, your fifth grapefruit? And how many sandwiches have you had since lunchtime?"_

Then, after the plates are cleared, Jack and I knock heads over how we should find Sydney.

"We can't go to the hotel, Mike," Jack points out for the five hundred thousandth time. "I would be the first one through the doors if I thought we could do it without endangering them, but if we actually want to save them, and not just let Sydney know we're here before she dies, we can't take that risk."

It's brutal language, but a valid point.

So who do we send?

"I think," Jack says, "it's come time for us to call your boss."

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

I suppose I should relate the details my telephone conversation with Cole, but the less of the man I have to put up with, the better, so I'm just going to give you the bare bones.

He swore quite a bit, but threatened surprisingly little, especially when I told him the vase was safe. I then said I thought it would be two or three days at least before I could get out, but I promised I would do so.

"And the owner of the house?" he asked. "She won't press charges?"

"What's to press for? They didn't find the vase on me. I haven't even seen the woman- they called her once her guards brought me here. But I'll be out in no time, I promise. I think they just want to scare me a bit."

"And we know how hard it is to scare you," he said coldly. "Well, hurry back, Dear- Baby's waiting."

I slammed the phone down, and Mom asked what was wrong, but I just shook my head at her, because I didn't trust myself to speak.

Then we made a brief stop at my hotel, where Mom's gorilla broke into my room and made a general mess of the entire place, so it would look as if all of my things have been stolen. In reality, though, he had neatly packed them in my duffel and deposited them in the trunk before we continued on.

Now we are heading for the airfield, and the sun is rising above the skyline as we pull up by a small private jet that can't be any more than two or three years old. I do wonder briefly what Mom's pension plan is, then decide I really don't want to know.

While we were still in the car, we had finally settled on plan of action regarding our destination, not to mention how to get Emily there.

We first will contact Patti, back in Sackville, and have her get in touch with friends of hers who live in Boston, and who will put her and her husband up at their place until they can collect Emily from wherever she is. Then Patti and her husband will bring Emily back to Canada, using their own daughter's birth certificate, and take her to Nova Scotia, where Mike and I have a cottage.

It's a pretty good cottage, as they go, and though it's vacant more often than not, we keep it fully furnished, and I know where the key is kept, and how to turn on the water and the electricity. I ran it by Mom, and she has agreed to rough it with Emily and me while we arrange for Mike and Dad to join the three of us.

"If Cole even begins to suspect something is wrong, he'll move her," Mom predicts, as we board the plane and another gorilla gets into the cockpit, while the other one takes the car away. "We have to act as quickly as possible."

"Don't talk like that, please," I beg. "I mean, really. I don't think I can take it, Mom, I really don't. She's everything to me- her, and Mike, and Dad. If I lost her-"

"We won't talk about it, then," Mom interrupts deliberately, as we seat ourselves in chairs that feel like clouds, especially since I've been up all night. "We won't talk at all, actually. You've given me co-ordinates for a landing spot, and I've passed them on to Gregorio. You can just sit back, relax, and sleep. Leave the worrying to me, Sydney. You've done more than enough for one lifetime."

One thing is for sure- no way can I argue with that.

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

"I can do this," I tell myself, standing in Ryan Hanson's study and looking at the desk phone he has told me I am free to use. "I can do this. I mean, I worked under him for years, and there wasn't ever really any problem. He's a little gruff, I guess, but nothing I couldn't handle, and hey, I survived a woman in labour, so I'm sure I can-"

"Who you talkin' to, Mr. Vaughn?"

I jump about a mile in the air (conservatively speaking) and spin around to find the little Hanson twins eyeing me curiously.

"Wow, you guys startled me," I say, struggling to smile even with my heart jumping into my throat. "I- um- who was I talking to? Sorry- I was just talking to myself."

"You sounded worried," the girl observed.

"Yeah, well, I guess I might be, a bit. See, I have to call my boss, and he's kind of a grumpy guy. I'm worried he'll get mad when he finds out I came all the way to Boston without phoning him first, and telling him."

"Will he hurt you?" the girl wonders, worried.

"Oh, no, I don't think so."

I then consider Devlin, and swallow hard.

"I mean, I'm pretty sure he won't. Look, kids- I'm sorry, what were your names, again?"

"I'm Madison, and he's Jared."

"Oh, well- it's nice to meet you, and no, I really don't think he'll hurt me. But he'll be mad, and he'll yell a lot, and I really don't want to have to listen to that right now, because I'm already pretty worried about my wife."

"Her name's Australia, right?" Madison verified.

"No, stupid," Jared rolled his eyes, exasperated. "Her name's Sydney. I told you already, Sydney is _in_ Australia."

"Then what's Mr. Vaughn doin' in Boston?"

"Because Sydney is in Boston."

"But you just said she was in-"

"Look, kids," I cut in quickly, "I really do need a little space so I can call my boss."

"Why do you want to call him if he's just going to yell at you?" Madison wondered.

"Yeah," Jared chimed in, "If my teacher's going to yell at me, I just go and hide in the corner, until she forgets she's mad at me."

I get a mental picture of me leaving the phone on the desk, Devlin's voice blaring from the receiver, while I go and curl up behind the big leather sofa against the far wall, but I push the wishful thought from my head before it can gain any real substance.

"Thanks for the tip, Jared," I smile, "but when you get a little bigger, that tends not to work as well anymore."

"See?" Madison says triumphantly, "what'd I tell you, huh?"

They are still bickering as they leave me by myself, the phone ringing in my hand. The connection is made entirely too quickly for my liking, and I hear Devlin's secretary identify herself and the place where she works.

"Uh, hi, Jean, this is Michael Vaughn. Agent Michael- oh, you do. That's- that's nice. I- yes, it's good to hear your voice too. I was just wondering if I could speak to Devlin for a minute. It's- it's kind of an emergency . . ."

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

It's daylight when we land in Nova Scotia, after a brief stop in England to refuel for the cross-Atlantic trip. I passed the flight making arrangements over the telephone for getting everybody in and out of the country, and I am incredibly exhausted, but hey, at least I'm organized.

Patti and her husband, it's been decided, will both come down on the next flight, bunk with her friends for the night, and leave for Canada as soon as they locate and collect Emily. I actually spent a good portion of the flight just talking with Patti, who was initially quite surprised to hear from me, but more than willing to help out once she heard what the problem was.

She also promised, after extensive pleading on my part, that she would not breathe a word of anything to Mike if he happened to call.

"He'd go to pieces," I told her. "He would. I'm not sure I'm not in them myself by now, but I can't risk him trying to find her all by himself, Patti. She could be hurt."

So Patti relented.

"Although really, Sydney," she had said, worried, "he must be verging on suicidal by now."

It was not a happy thought, so I didn't dwell on it. Instead, I expressed gratitude, and when we finally touched down in a Nova Scotia hayfield, not a kilometer from our cottage, I was truly thankful to be more or less home.

"Mm," Mom sighs, looking around her as we disembark, "look at this place- it's gorgeous. I do so miss North America."

"And this is one of the best parts of it," I promise her, as we head to the road, bags in hand, to start walking (we have no desire to hitch, because even Eastern Canada gets more than its share of psychos).

"This Patti," she says, once we are on our way, "what's she like? Are you two close?"

"Well- sort of. I mean, she was one of the mothers who came to the house and helped me out when Emily came along, and her husband helped us with the house when Mike wrenched his back trying to demolish the kitchen cabinets all by himself, so I know her fairly well. But we really aren't best friends, or anything- she's just the best choice for blending into Boston. At least, for blending into as many places in Boston as we might need her to. She's- you know. Classy, but in a warm kind of way."

"And nobody else in Sackville is?"

"Well, sure, some of them are. But they're mostly either classy, or just warm, and mostly just warm. Classy is- kind of rare in Sackville, to say the least, you know? It isn't the sort of town where every night there's a black tie reception for some benefit or other. It's more of a backyard barbecue town, or, in the winter, a marshmallow roast, apple cider party kind of town. You know? Kids, and family, and - well - big, old trees with initials carved in them. And ducks. And pheasants. Lots of ducks and pheasants."

"I see." Mom smiles, then glances over at me. "And you- you're happy there?"

"Oh, yes." My eyes are shining as I speak. "It's perfect. It's pretty, it's- it's just a good place to settle down. When I'm there, I don't feel like I'm hiding out, trying to keep away from Sloane because I fought against what he stood for. I feel like I chose to live there because I wanted a good, safe place to settle down, where I could raise a family with the one person I love more than anything. And that Dad's there just makes it that much more of a family town- I see him every day. We both teach at the University, and - well, for crying out loud, Mom! There's hardly a person in that town whose name I don't know, now!"

"It sounds wonderful, Sydney," she says quietly. "I'm happy for you."

I didn't realise how much those words would mean to me, coming from her, until she says them to me. They make me catch my breath, and I feel my eyes grow moist.

"Thank-you," I manage. Then, "Oh, look- we're here."

O0O0O

Our cottage is actually a house, which we bought from people who realised only after they had built it brand new from the fieldstone foundation up that the middle of nowhere is not the ideal place to live with any kind of regularity. It's made of beautiful redwood logs and set back from the road, overlooking a winding, smallish river. I've had enough of rivers for one year, so I draw the drapes the moment I get into the master bedroom. Then I take Mom to the guest room, and she eyes it approvingly.

"My, Sydney, if this is your cottage, I would love to see your home."

"It's not much bigger," I admit, "though we do have a nicer yard. We just got this one dirt cheap because the nearest town is half an hour's drive in both directions."

"Just as well," she decides, chucking her duffel onto the flowery quilt. "We don't need a bunch of people coming over with pies. Who are your nearest neighbors, anyway?"

"Ah, that would be the squatters in the rundown barn around the corner, but don't worry, their oven isn't hooked up yet, so there's no chance of a pie from them. They moved in there when a fire destroyed the house, and the family's insurance didn't cover all the repairs that they'd need to make."

"Goodness, do you know everybody's business around here?" she is frankly amused and amazed, and I have to laugh.

"Pretty much. That's how it is in places like these- there's hardly anybody to get to know, so those you do know, you know well. Now, would you like a cup of tea?"

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

Devlin is surprised to hear from me, to say the least, but he recovers pretty fast, and asks me what he can do for me.

"Within reason," he amends quickly. "How have you been, anyway, Vaughn?"

"I've- uh- been better," I admit.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that. The country not agreeing with you?"

"Oh, no, the country is- is agreeable. We like it there, although- well, I'm actually in Boston right now, and I'm calling because I need your help."

"Oh? What with?" Devlin asks, and if he sounds a little suspicious, who can blame him? After all, one of his agents married a highly volatile double agent, took off for Canada on inactive-until-further-notice status, and hadn't been heard from for four years. He really had every right to be a little antsy.

"Well, Sir," I begin with far greater confidence than I feel, "it's like this . . ."

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

Mum accepts the cup of tea, and actually drags out an angel food cake from the box mix stuck in the back of the cupboard.

"No mice?" she wonders, checking the unchewed carton and then looking around. "I'd have thought, in a log home-"

"No, we keep them down with traps and Francie," I reassure her. "Though at first, she wondered if it wasn't beneath her dignity to go mousing. Hey, how much food do we have here, anyway? Will we need to go shopping?"

Mom and I examine the contents of the cupboards, and although she is reluctant to admit it, two cans of chicken noodle soup and a half box of stale cereal later, she agrees that food is in order.

"But the smallest of the two towns, please, Sydney," she cautions. "I don't want word to somehow get back to Cole that we're here."

I consent, choosing not to mention that it is in the smallest towns that news travels fastest. We make plans to take the beat-up old Ford Mike and I keep in the yard in case of emergency (okay, so we're just too lazy to get rid of it, but it runs. Sort of) into Parrsboro bright and early the next morning.

"I want to be there the moment they unlock the doors, and get going as fast as we can. The fewer people who see us, the better," Mom says firmly, and I eye her with a weird sense of _déjà vu_.

"Mom, are you always this paranoid?"

"No, dear, I live in Italy. That's _why_ I live in Italy, rather than North America- so I don't have to be so tense about my past catching up with me. I had just forgotten that until now- thank you ever so much for reminding me. But why do you ask?"

"Because you remind me of how I was about four years ago. I was- well, I was a basket case, plain and simple. Mike had to all but sedate me to get us to Niagara Falls- I was constantly terrified that Sloane would somehow find us. I mean, I calmed down after a while, but for months I was bordering on hysteria. Then, when Emily was born, it started all over again. I was just starting to relax, and then Cole-" I break off, my lips tightening.

"He's got me started all over again," I finally finish, very quietly, and I can't really help the fact that I sound unhealthily bitter.

Mom's face loses a bit of its tense, worried look, and she comes over to rest an arm across my shoulders.

"We'll get him, Sydney," she promises me firmly. "I assure you, we are going to get him."

"Okay," I sniffle, and she cups my chin in her hand, making me look up at her.

"Would you like some more tea, dear?" she asks, sounding so concerned and Continental that I smother a snort of laughter before I answer her politely.

"No thanks, Mom. Not right now."

"Well, then, would you like to cry?"

"Uh-huh." I admit, sniffling.

"Well, all right then. You just go ahead and cry."

And for want of a better option, with Mom's arms wrapped around me and my face buried in the shoulder I am rapidly drenching with the product of my own fears, frustrations and fatigue, that is just what I do.

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

"Vaughn you _what_?"

"I know it sounds bad, but-"

"Vaughn, this doesn't just _sound_ bad, it _is_ bad. You _lost_ your _wife_!"

"I didn't _lose_ her, I just had her taken from me. Her, and my daughter."

"Vaughn, this is-" he breaks off, adjectives failing him.

"Yes, I am aware of that," I say, pretending in the face of his silence that he came up with a bunch (it's easy, because I've thought of quite few myself since I last saw them both).

Then I keep speaking, frustrated anger building inside me as I go.

"I am well aware how terrible this is, so you _definitely _don't need to tell me again. I have told myself over and over that this is the worst thing that could possibly have happened to me, and I know it's true. My wife and my daughter are missing, and besides the faintest excuse of an idea as to where they might be, I have only the knowledge that if I don't find them very, very soon, I am going to become certifiably insane. Do you understand? I really hope you do, because I really don't need you telling me what a fiasco this is. I assure you, _I already know_."

For a moment there is silence at the other end of the line, and then Devlin sighs.

"Vaughn, look, I-"

"I apologise," I mutter, "that was out of line. I may not have worked under you for four years, but . . . I'm sorry."

"No, Vaughn, don't be. Sydney is missing, and so is- Emily, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"I may be going out on a limb, Vaughn, but I _do_ have the slightest idea of how you feel. I have family myself, and if anything ever happened to them- well, I don't blame you at all for losing it. In fact, I owe you an apology for even beginning to think that I could tell you better than you yourself already know how awful this is. Now, what, exactly, did you have in mind that we should do?"

I take a deep breath.

"Well, Sir, I was hoping that you could tell me, because to be completely honest with you, right now, I have no idea."

O0O0O

O0O0O

Well, that's the end of part seven. Eight is in the works, I'll try not to keep you waiting as long as I did last time, but I can't make any promises. See, the reason I went away in the first place was for my job, so I'm working as well as writing, and that's going to slow me down a bit, so just try to be patient (to make it a teeny bit easier, I didn't use a cliffhanger this time!)

You will notice that, in the previous chapter, I changed it so that Sydney _could_ speak Italian. Thanks again for catching me on that before- I've since watched _Time Will Tell_ again, and heard her speaking with Signor Donato- she really _does_ have a beautiful accent!

Also, yes, I do know that we don't know yet what the 'A' in Sydney's name stands for, but Anne seemed as good a name as any, and it isn't like her mother would call her 'Sydney A' so I had to get a little creative. If, sometime in the next year or so, we find out what her middle name really is, and it's not Anne, I'll come back and fix it, okay?

I also wanted to say that I was incredibly impressed by the people who thought that the woman who owned the villa would be Emily Sloane, namely because when I originally started this chapter, that was who it was. I thought it would be terrific to bring her back- I've always thought she was a character who could have been fleshed out a whole lot more, and I always had the greatest sympathy for her, living with such a monster. I did, however, after a few pages, find it necessary to change her to Laura, because I couldn't get the kind of back-and-forth repartee going between Sydney and Emily that I really wanted. So the whole storyline pretty well changed just because Emily Sloane can't banter- cool, huh?


	8. Chapter Eight

O0O0O

_"Vaughn you what?"_

_"I know it sounds bad, but-"_

_"Vaughn, this doesn't just sound bad, it is bad. You lost your wife!"_

_"I didn't lose her, I just had her taken from me. Her, and my daughter."_

_"Vaughn, this is-" he breaks off, adjectives failing him._

_"Yes, I am aware of that," I say, pretending in the face of his silence that he came up with a bunch (it's easy, because I've thought of quite few myself since I last saw them both)._

_Then I keep speaking, frustrated anger building inside me as I go._

_"I am well aware how terrible this is, so you definitely don't need to tell me again. I have told myself over and over that this is the worst thing that could possibly have happened to me, and I know it's true. My wife and my daughter are missing, and besides the faintest excuse of an idea as to where they might be, I have only the knowledge that if I don't find them very, very soon, I am going to become certifiably insane. Do you understand? I really hope you do, because I really don't need you telling me what a fiasco this is. I assure you, I already know."_

_For a moment there is silence at the other end of the line, and then Devlin sighs._

_"Vaughn, look, I-"_

_"I apologise," I mutter, "that was out of line. I may not have worked under you for four years, but . . . I'm sorry."_

_"No, Vaughn, don't be. Sydney is missing, and so is- Emily, wasn't it?"_

_"Yes."_

_"I may be going out on a limb, Vaughn, but I do have the slightest idea of how you feel. I have family myself, and if anything ever happened to them- well, I don't blame you at all for losing it. In fact, I owe you an apology for even beginning to think that I could tell you better than you yourself already know how awful this is. Now, what, exactly, did you have in mind that we should do?"_

_I take a deep breath._

_"Well, Sir, I was hoping that you could tell me, because to be completely honest with you, right now, I have no idea."_

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

Morning comes at twelve o'clock, as per usual, and I am still awake to greet it when it does. It's pretty dark, as mornings go, but I am more interested in losing myself in it, so it works out perfectly. Wrapped in the blanket from my bed, a reasonably intact china cup filled with tea cooling in my hands, I head outdoors, feel my way down to the river, and sit on the shore to dip my toes in the icy water.

You would think, after everything I've been through, that rivers would somehow affect me negatively. I had almost expected to run, screaming, the next time I saw a moving body of water. But instead, I find it almost soothing to be near the water. I don't mind the feeling of frigid ripples rushing over my sweaty feet, cooling and then numbing them. I don't mind the little pebbles that give me a too-firm massage as I sit, sip my tea, and swat at blackflies (Nova Scotia's number one predator is the all too common blackfly. I bet you didn't know that. I bet you didn't want to). There is a moon above me that is over half full, allowing me to see the gurgling water sparkle as it moves, hypnotizing me as I think about the last river I ended up in, and the events that had led to my arrival there.

I had gone on my daily jog at the usual time, leaving Mike asleep in bed and Emily, fed and changed, in the bassinet beside the bed. I had jogged through the waterfowl park, and had gotten about halfway through when I became aware of somebody following me. I wasn't particularly frightened- you usually aren't, when you know you can take care of yourself.

Nevertheless, when I came out onto Bridge Street, I was relieved when Paul, walking along the swan pond, waved me over, and invited me to talk with him.

Well, _he_ said talk, but that's not what they call it in LA. Or Canada. Or, probably, anywhere, for that matter.

He made a whole lot of clumsy insinuations, which I tried to tactfully pretend that I didn't understand, until finally he said he didn't know what I saw in Mike, anyway. Then he had the nerve (or just plain, old-fashioned stupidity) to say that I'd be a lot better off with just about anybody besides Mike, but he was going to give me a chance to have the best.

Well, those weren't his exact words, but that was the gist of them, so naturally I had to get a little steamed in my husband's defense, not to mention my own (he was attacking my good taste, after all). Paul just couldn't understand, though, how he could not be appealing enough to entice me away from Mike (which just proves he was delusional, anyway) and I ended up getting really mad at him. When he actually persisted physically, I was forced to react in kind, which I did quite efficiently, if I do say so myself.

I left him holding his eye and moaning as, good and mad, I headed towards the bridge, intending to cut back over the hill and get straight onto Bridge Street, so I wouldn't have to walk past Paul.

I had forgotten, however, my hanger-on, until he addressed me when I was just setting foot on the bridge.

__

"Hey, Pigtails."

Whirling around. Registering shock, disgust, fear all in a split second.

"You-"

"Yeah, me. Last time I checked, anyway. How ya been?"

Thinking, too slowly for survival, but too quickly for a stunned brain. Putting things together.

"It was you, wasn't it? You were the man Lisa saw looking in the window."

"Now, why would I be looking in your window, Pigtails?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

Pretend you're not scared, Sydney. Even if you're shaking in your shoes, and you're going to have to change your underwear when you get home, pretend you're not scared.

But they can smell fear, so I don't even know why I bothered.

"Maybe I can. Why don't we take a little drive back to your house, and we'll talk all about it there?"

The house. Where Vaughn, who could sleep through an earthquake, is dead to the world, and Emily defended only by a five-pound cat and an almost overweight dog. Where the only gun we have is locked in a safe in the basement, and the ammunition stored under a floorboard in the attic. No way.

"Not a chance. Right here is just fine."

"Fine by me."

The fist, coming so fast I barely had time to duck it, and retaliate. My left side left wide open, and the stinging kick he landed there, so I had to jump back, before he could take my legs out from under me. Only, the kids who live in the house on the hill behind me had been playing there with their squirt guns, and they'd soaked the bridge, so my feet slipped, and he took advantage of my unbalance. Stepping up quickly, he grabbed my legs and, hoisting them up over my head, threw me over the side before I could grab onto something - anything - to steady myself.

And the last thing I saw, as I twisted around to face upwards, was that awful, mocking sneer of satisfaction on that evil, ugly face.

Then the world was abruptly erased.

I shiver, and drain the dregs of my tea before I set the cup down, and wrap the blanket tighter around me to block out the night chill. My feet are completely numb by now, but the rest of me is not, and I am suddenly shaking.

Standing unsteadily, no longer feeling the pebbles as I pick my way towards the grass, I climb the riverbank, and make my way back inside, where Mom still sleeps, and where I plan to follow suit before much more time has passed.

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

Devlin, when given the chance, can be an amazingly warm human being. I gave him the chance by presenting my problem to him, and he comes through and then some. I was standing outside the Hansons' townhouse when he arrived, along with two of his best agents, to go over The Plan with me.

(Sydney, when mad, had once demanded "What is the big deal with you government people and this Plan of yours? You'd think it was the last word in everything. I mean, when you can show me a Plan that doesn't get one single person needlessly killed, doesn't permanently screw up one life, and doesn't make one man or woman wish they'd never been born - or at least never progressed beyond infancy - then I will buy into it. But until then, enough with The Plan, already!")

I don't relate this story to Devlin, though. I figure that if this one works, Sydney will change her mind about The Plan anyway, so I might as well just keep quiet, and hear what he has to say.

Am I ever glad I do.

"What's going to happen is, Agents Oliverez and McGregor, here, will go into the hotel, and make inquiries at the desk about what room Cole has booked. We don't know what name he's using, so we'll have to give a description of both him and Sydney, and see what they come up with."

"You think that he'll be in the same room as her?" the thought had never occurred to me - or at least, I hadn't let it - but now it does, and I am more than mildly sickened.

Devlin is immediately repentant.

"Oh, Vaughn, no, I never said that. I just- well, how many guys can afford even one room at the Ritz-Carlton, right? But no, of course- Sydney probably wouldn't stand for that, anyway, would she?"

I think of the purple, swollen flesh encompassing Paul Gavin's eye, and my lips twitch involuntarily.

"No, I guess she wouldn't."

"Good. Now, of course our top priority will be to keep Cole completely in the dark. We don't want to endanger Sydney or Emily in any way, and to tip him off would be as good as signing their death warrants. For that reason, these two are going in as tourists and Vaughn, you and Mr. Bristow are going to stay as far away as possible until we have Cole in custody."

"But what if he _is_ in the same room as Sydney, or at least, as Emily?" I worry. "What if you break in, only to find he has hostages? He'll get away, and probably kill them once he has."

"Look, Mike," Devlin says, and I realise it's probably only the second or third time since I met him that he's addressed me so informally, "we are not going to put either of them at risk. Both Agent Oliverez and Agent McGregor have handheld, heat-sensing sonograms that will allow them to see how many people are in a room. That way we'll know for sure if Cole is alone or not. I promise you, if Sydney and Emily are endangered, it will not be through a mistake this agency made. All right?"

No.

All right would be Sydney, Emily and me at home on the deck, with iced tea and sugar cookies, and Donovan digging up an Oriental poppy while Francie tried to catch songbirds on the wing by tackling them midair when she leaped from the deck railing. All right would be holding my daughter again, or my wife, or, best of all, holding both my daughter and my wife, and never letting go again. Touching, seeing, smelling Sydney, and watching her remember everything we've been to each other, and everything we planned to be. Walking down any street in any city we chose without fearing for out lives, or those of the people close to us. Finally seeing every last enemy we ever made put away for good. And finally knowing what it means to be a real, safe, normal, happy family.

Because none of us have ever been, and it seems to me like it's about time we were.

But Devlin can't do that for me, and it would be just plain mean if I were to ask that of him, so instead I smile, and nod.

"All right."

But that's a lie. It's not. And right now, I'm wondering if it ever will be.

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

Canada- the land of ice and snow. Right?

Wrong.

It's twenty-eight degrees Celsius when Mom and I set out in a battered old brown Ford with no air conditioning, and windows that get stuck halfway down, and it's climbed to thirty by the time we make it into Parrsboro. It is this that causes the frigid interior of the air conditioned grocery store seem like Heaven on Earth- not only to me, but to the sticky, sweaty early morning shoppers who are all around us, searching for necessities.

"It's seven thirty in the morning!" Mom hisses, looking around in amazement at the teeming mass of rural humanity. "What people in their right minds get up in time to go shopping at seven thirty in the morning on a holiday?!"

"Well, for them it's not a holiday," I explain. "They're farmers, or blueberry or strawberry pickers, or parents, or something like that. They all get up early anyway. I guess maybe some people might be sleeping in, but not too many."

"I should have brushed my hair," Mom mutters, tugging at the dark brown ponytail that's more out of the elastic than it is in. "I just knew it."

"At least you showered," I grimace, as we pass one very large man who obviously hasn't. "Now, what's the first thing on that list?"

"Um- frozen peas." Mom says. "But we should see if we can't get them fresh, because they'd be bound to be cheaper this time of year, and- what's so funny, Sydney?"

The reason she asks this is that I am doubled over the cart, giggling my head off. It takes me almost a minute before I can catch my breath, and answer.

"Us. We are."

"Are we?" Mom glances around. "I suppose a few people are staring, but it was most likely that display of hysteria that brought that on, rather than us as people. Why do you say that?"

"Well, look at us." I am still giggling a bit, but I manage to sober as I go on.

"I mean, you took off when I was what, six? You left me with a father who rapidly became emotionally constipated, got me a nanny, and kept me out of the way as much as possible. I grew up this mousy, insignificant little twit, until some weirdo hands me a file and says I fit a profile, and I should join the CIA. Well, fine. Strange? A little, but fine.

"What is more than a little strange is the father I thought sold airplane parts is actually an agent of this SD-6 thingy, so he wasn't only distant, he was lying to me what little time he did spend with me. Crushing, maybe, but not overly crippling. And yes, I guess life gets a little bit tricky, maybe, 'cause I have to lie about what I do, and juggle undergraduate work with my patriotic duty, but fine. I'm making a difference, you know? Doing something worthwhile."

Mom's face is grave, now, but she remains silent as I go on.

"Then a really awesome guy - I mean, he is terrific. I am madly in love with this guy - proposes to me. Wow. I am floored. I am thrilled. I say yes right away, and life couldn't get any better. But I'm lying to him about my life, and that doesn't seem right, because after all, I just committed my life to him. So- I tell him. Everything. About me, and what a great job I really have. And he's a little startled, I guess, because he goes out and gets drunk, and he makes the mistake of leaving a message on an answering machine while he's in that condition, so my nice bosses find out that I broke our little code of silence. So they shoot him. In his bathtub. If that isn't disillusioning, Mom, I don't know what is."

She is crying, now. Not hard, or anything, but her face is twisted, and tears are streaming down her cheeks.

"So I go to the CIA, and guess what I find out? I'm working for the bad guys. A severely crushing blow to my patriotic pride. After a due recovery period I sign on, and start a- well, I guess it's a triple life, cause I was leading a double one before. Now I'm lying to a whole new set of friends, and I think my father is working for the bad guys, until I find out he's doing the same thing I am- triple duty. Wow. I also might be falling in love with my CIA handler, which is not good, because you aren't supposed to do that, and I think, at the time, that he's married, though that turns out not to be true. And when he breaks up with his girlfriend, and I find out he's single after all, I'm glad. Is that bad? Well, it's against protocol, so it must be, right?

"Then there's this big hullabaloo about some drawing that looks like me, and I have to drive to this mountain, only instead I drive into the river, and I survive by breathing air from the tires, and guess what? I suddenly see that wow, my mom must have done that, too. So my mom's not only a traitor, she's been alive all this time and she hasn't even bothered to see me. Gee, and you thought your family was dysfunctional.

"And when I'm in Taipei, just trying to save the world again, I believe I see my handler drown before my very eyes just before I'm knocked out by a security guard. Said guard then transports me to a less than pleasant little room where I'm handcuffed to a chair before I come around. And guess what? Guess who my hostess is? My mom."

"Sydney, I-"

"No, no, it's fine," I reassure her hastily. "I mean, I do get away. Dad has this thing for tracking devices, and he planted one on me, so he and my handler, who turned out not to be dead after all, found me. And then my mom - you - comes to my wedding, which was really a sweet gesture on your part, Mom-"

"It was the least I could do," she manages a tiny smile, and I nod appreciatively.

"That's it. You have to learn to smile at the little things, Mom. And then, after I marry my CIA handler, effectively telling our boss just where he can put his protocol, I move to some tiny little Canadian town and hide out for the next five years. I stay there until I'm kidnapped, and my daughter is held hostage so I will steal a vase from a woman who turns out to be my very own mother. You know what happened next, of course, Mom, but I was laughing because, wow, it's so incredibly weird that we're standing here together, in the middle of the supermarket, and you're talking about fresh peas being cheaper than frozen ones this time of year. Because you'd almost think we were normal, wouldn't you? And whatever we are, Mom, I know we're not normal."

"No," Mom agrees, her smile remaining, but becoming sad, "no, Sydney, I guess we're not."

We stand and look at each other for about a minute, not saying anything, just considering each other. Finally, I speak.

"Peas?"

"Yes," she nods briskly, "but be careful that they're the really fresh ones, and not the ones left over from last week. You can never be too careful with produce, you know."

Then she stops. I can see her replaying her words over in her head, registering the idiotic normalcy of them, and a real, amused smile cracks across her face.

Because we really do seem almost normal, even though nothing could be farther from the truth. And when you're under as much strain as we are, even the simplest things can seem hilarious, which is why, a cartload of groceries later, standing in the checkout line, arm in arm, we are laughing until we cry.

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

I don't like The Plan. I mean, yeah, it's pretty straightforward, and yes, if I were thinking logically, I would have to agree that it's about the smartest we can do on such short notice.

But I don't like it.

Because it means that the person who goes to my wife, and tells her she's safe, and that it's all over now, will not be me. Because some other man is going to get to help her out of the hotel, and then bring her to me, as if she was a pizza I had ordered, or something, instead of the woman I had pledged my life to.

And that's why I don't like The Plan.

When I run it by Jack, who is busy giving piggyback rides to the Hanson twins, he is more demonstrative of his frustration with said Plan than I, but he is also more logical about the whole situation.

"If there were some way - any way - for us to get in there without endangering the both of them . . ." he fumes, once the children have been chased into another room.

"I know," I frown, and he gets a good look at my face. He seems disturbed by what he sees there, because he quickly puts out his hand and grips my shoulder. Hard.

"Mike, look at me."

I do. Jack's just got that kind of grip.

"Now, promise me you will not do something so _stupid_ as going into that hotel by yourself, Mike. Promise me that."

"But Jack, I-"

"No." His hands are trembling with restrained emotion, and the importance of what he is saying. He's leaning in, speaking in That Voice and my shoulder is killing me, but his hand is so close to my neck I figure I better not say anything, so I just clench my teeth and bear it.

"I don't care, right now, that Sydney is your wife. Can you see that? Right now she's not anything else to me but MINE, and you, I like you, Mike, but if you do anything to endanger my daughter, I will take you to a dark alley and finish you. She's all I have."

"She's all I have, too." I say quietly. "Her, and Emily."

"Yes, but don't you see, Mike, there _is_ no Emily for me. She's my granddaughter, and I love her dearly, but she's _your_ baby. Sydney is mine. After Sydney, for you, maybe you'd find somebody else some day, but for me . . . no. That's why, if you screw this up for her, I'm not going to be giving you any second chance."

I think there's something about this kind of situation that brings out the stupid in me. I probably shouldn't have said anything at that point but a short, sharp 'yes sir' but one thing he said, I just couldn't let slide.

"After Sydney?" I stare at him, disbelieving. "Jack, there is no such thing."

Jack searches my face, then nods, satisfied.

"Good. I believe you. Now- let's just get them back."

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

After we have filled the back of the pickup with our groceries, and battened them down with an old orange tarp used to hold the blueberry boxes in place when the truck was used for transporting such materials, Mom's cell rings. She answers, listens, and confirms that I am right there. Then she passes it over to me, and it only takes me a second to toss the keys to Mom before I have it to my ear.

"Hello?"

"Sydney?"

"Patti! Oh, thank God! Tell me, did you- did-" I can't even bring myself to ask the question, but Patti answers it for me.

"Yes, Sydney, we got her. There wasn't a single hitch- not even with the tracking thingy in her baby seat. I was worried I wouldn't know how to use the receiver, but there wasn't a problem at all. I found it in the bottom drawer of his dresser, just like you said, and even without the instructions you gave I think I could have figured it out. Customs thought it was a miniature TV, and there wasn't any hint of a fuss. We turned it on in the Commons, and the signal came through almost immediately- he had her in the back of a Nanny's Agency that offered overnight boarding. It was so busy that we just walked right in, and took her out the back door. Nobody so much as blinked."

"Oh, I-" I can't go on, and break down, crying. "Can you- is she there? Can you put the phone to her ear?"

Patti complies, and I coo into the receiver to the little girl I finally remember as my own.

"Hello, my lovely, Mommy misses you so, so much. I was so worried about you! But Aunt Patti is going to take spectacular care of you, and you'll be back with Mommy by tonight. Oh, my love-" I start crying, and I hear the soft gurgles she makes whenever she hears Mike's or my voice before Patti comes back on.

"She's smiling, Sydney!" she laughs. "Oh, you should see her- she's perfectly healthy, and she's still wearing the dress she did when we saw her at the barbecue, but they took wonderful care of her. She's changed, and smells clean, and everything. And if we get into Halifax by nine thirty, like they say we will, and there isn't any problem with Customs, we should have her back to you by midnight, at the latest."

"Fine, that's- that's fine, Patti. Oh, and to speed things up, you can either ditch the tracking device, or you can mail it to us, so Customs can't hassle you about it."

Patti agrees, then says tentatively,

"Um- Sydney? How did you know that Jack had this thing planted on her baby seat?"

I smile, thinking of all the times I had 'run away' from home, only to have Dad track me down within half an hour. I think of how he never seemed to worry about me when I was out late at night, and of how he and Mike found me in Taipei, and I shrug my shoulders as I answer.

"Oh, I just know Dad, is all. Give Emily a kiss and hug, and have a safe flight."

Then I hang up, and, climbing into the cab of the truck to sit beside Mom, I can hardly keep the massive grin I'm wearing from splitting my face in two.

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

No time in my life has ever been as nerve-wracking for me as this last half hour. It takes exactly thirteen steps to cross from the Hansons' couch to their grand piano, and I have paced them four hundred and fifty six times before Jack tell me to sit down or he'll have to knock me out just to keep from getting dizzy watching me.

"But there's no reason it should take them this long," I insist, though I nevertheless return to sit beside him. "They should be back by now. Unless something's gone wrong. I know it- something's gone wrong."

"Michael!" Jack finally explodes, gripping my shoulders and forcing me to look at him. "Nothing is wrong! Those agents are following procedure to the letter, and since there's no way that they are going to endanger Sydney and Emily, I think they are doing just fine. You, however, are going to drive me to violence. Will you please quit acting like a flea-bitten ape, and kindly cease that infernal _tapping_?!"

I glance down at my foot, which is beating a nervous staccato on the silky hardwood floors. With an effort, and my hand, I still it, then look back at Jack, who takes a deep breath, and visibly regains control of himself.

"I'm sorry. I know you're worried. I am too. But I believe we can safely assume that, whatever the cause of this delay, it in no way means we have just cause to worry for their safety. Yet."

"'Just cause'? Jack, I'll give you 'just cause'! A psychopath with a craving for revenge, and an inability to control his actions that borders on insanity. Does that sound like 'just cause' to you? I've seen McKenas Cole- seen how he operates. And he has _them_. So don't expect me to calm down any time soon."

"No, of course not," Jack sighs, and releases my shoulders. "But worrying will not help them, and it will only make things worse for us. For me, at least, and I don't mind making things worse for you; misery and company, and that. So I suggest you sit back, take a deep breath, and pray."

Don't think I don't consider answering that. Don't think for one second that I am not seething inside with a nearly uncontrollable desire to run the whole way to the Ritz-Carlton, and search every room myself until I find somebody who can give me the answers I want to hear- that Sydney and Emily are safe, and Cole is out of the picture for good.

But then I see Jack - really see him - for the first time since we came to Boston. He's pale, unkempt, and hasn't had a real bath since the morning of the barbecue. His hands are still shaking, even though he's pressing them against his knees to try and still them, and there is a nervous tic in the lower section of his left cheek that has traveled up to his left eye as well. If anything, he's more of a mess than I am, and yet he is managing to hold himself back, both from panicking, and from killing me. I appreciate both.

Then I think about what he said, and my head, which has been insisting the same thing Jack just said - that action on my part will not help my wife or daughter - finally manages to convince my heart that this is actually the truth.

So I sink back beside Jack, develop a nervous tic of my own, and pray.

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

I can hardly contain myself the whole way back to the cottage. Of course the first thing I want to do is call Dad and Mike, but Mom is quick to point out the foolhardiness of this.

"You never know with that man," she says, referring, of course, to Cole. "He's sick, twisted, and ruthless. Don't say a word until we actually have Emily- then you can call Michael, and we can give him a message that he alone will understand. Or we can call your father- either way, we are not doing anything until we have your daughter here, with us, where she's one hundred percent safe."

"I thought she'd be safe with me before we were kidnapped," I point out quietly. "Maybe I'm more out of practice than I'd like to admit."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Mom snorts, grinding the gears as, once we pass the Parrsboro town limits, and the threat of a speeding ticket diminishes, she takes us up to a wheezing eighty k's, and we rattle along so fast I am sure my teeth will be jarred right out of my mouth. "You're my daughter- that alone should count for something. You're more than capable, incredibly resourceful, and you have two men in your life who would die for you in a second, not to mention a mother who would do the same."

She slips it in there so casually that I almost let it slip by, as she had hoped I would. Instead, I catch it, and I look over at her in wonderment.

"Really?"

"What do you mean, really?" she sniffs, but I persist.

"You would really do that? Die for me, I mean?"

She looks over at me for a second, and nods as she says, quite simply,

"Yes. I would."

I bite my lip, my eyes stinging.

"Oh, Mom . . ."

"Now, don't start to cry again," she admonishes, her own voice husky. "Look, Sydney, life for me has always been about deceit. I was trained from a very young age to pretend to be something other than myself, and if that wasn't crippling enough, I was forced into a marriage of convenience, and expected to not fall in love with what I found there."

I watch her, hardly even daring to breathe, as she continues to speak above the throaty vibration of the engine.

"I fell in love anyway, Sydney. Your father is a strong, brave man who loved me dearly. No," she corrects herself, "he loved Laura. But I was more than willing to become Laura- she was such a sweet, simple person that I wanted desperately to be her. I wanted her husband for myself. I wanted her beautiful child to be my own. I fell in love with the lie I had been made to adopt, and the worst part of all was trying to hide it from my superiors.

"For a while, I did well. After all, they themselves had trained me to deceive. But as you got older, and my reactions became less planned and more natural, they couldn't help but notice things."

"What things?" I wonder. She shrugs.

"Every time you were sick, I was in your bedroom at your side before you even coughed. I was at the school the second you fell from the monkey bars, and when the babysitter broke her arm, I broke every traffic law ever set to get home to you before you hurt yourself. I even fell in love with your father, though never as deeply as I pretended I had. He was a wonderful man, Sydney- he had more integrity in his baby finger than every man I worked for put together. He was a good person, and there is something about good people that makes them irresistible. I may not have loved him as I was told to convey, but -" she breaks off, takes a deep breath, and then quotes: "Doubt that the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move; doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love."

I smile weakly back at her.

"Shakespeare."

"Yeah," she agrees, sighing heavily, "good old Shakespeare. Although of course the sun doesn't actually- but that's not the point. The point is, they found out. They contacted me, and said that they felt the whole affair had compromised my integrity. They were coming to collect me, and I knew that if I resisted, you and your father could be hurt. So instead, I agreed to come quietly, as long as I could make sure you and Jack would never doubt that I had been who I said I was. And the only way to arrange that was to stage my death.

"To do that, my superiors contacted the CIA, and left a tip. Then, when the counter-agent was chasing me, I made sure I went off the bridge in plain sight of at least a dozen people. Nobody could argue that I could not have survived. So- you and Jack were safe, in the dark, and would never be the wiser. And- I had to leave. I had other jobs to do."

The rest of the ride is continued in silence.

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

I have rarely had audible answers to prayer. Actually, never. Mostly the answer is like a weight of affirmation or negativity settled across my shoulders, although there have been times when I would not have been at all surprised to hear an actual voice. This time it is just the feeling, though a more powerful one than I have ever gotten before. I turn, and grin at Jack. He looks at me, bewildered, as I speak.

"They're fine. Both of them."

Indescribable relief washes across his face, just as the telephone rings.

I hear the housekeeper answer, speak softly, and then enter the den, eyeing us both uncertainly.

"Mr. Bristow? Mr. Vaughn? It is the telephone for you. It is the CIA. They need to speak with you immediately. They say it is urgent."

I'm on my feet in a heartbeat, and through the door in a twinkling, but I could have traveled at the speed of light and I still would never have beaten Jack- he has the telephone to his ear even before I get to my feet.

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

It's more a relief than anything to know that Mom really did love me. And I can't begin to say how wonderful it is to find out that she loved Dad, too- he's never completely healed from watching those old security tapes. I guess Mom was just a little too convincing an actress for him to see through it all.

Now, though, I retreat to my room to sit cross-legged on my bed and hug a pillow while I mull things over (the best pillow for hugging is plump, but not too soft and squishy- you want a little resistance when you squeeze it. Remember that).

Emily is on her way home. I know Patti will not let anything happen to her if there is any way at all she can prevent it- it's a mom thing. I will soon be able to hold my daughter again, and I can call my husband and tell him that I remember not only who we are, but who we are to each other. And then- well, I know it won't be long at all before he and Dad come to get us.

Cole is there, too, but as a lesser detail. Now that I know he's out there, I can be on my guard. I am not afraid of the known- just the uncertain and unforeseeable. Cole is a certainty, and while I can't predict his every action, I can reassure myself that he will not surprise me again. We'll get him- just like we will Sloane. It's only a matter of time.

Mom derails my train of thought when she knocks lightly on my door, and pokes her head in.

"Sydney? Would you like some lunch? I made- well, I made beef in a bun, because it seems we got ground beef and hot dog buns, which is an odd combination, but I was able to work around it. What do you say?"

I look up at the woman who has been so many things to me - loving mother, lost time, enigma, traitor, kidnapper, wedding guest, potential friend - and I find myself desperately wishing that, even for a day, we could be normal together. Maybe go out to lunch, buy something for the baby's room, talk about the men in our life (although I could probably tell Mom more about Dad than she could tell me)- anything that seems ordinary.

Then I think of the work I did while working for the CIA- the good things I managed to accomplish. I think of my husband, my father, and the unusual relationships I have with them. I think of my beautiful little girl, who looks so much like me and her father, and how dearly we both love her. How in love we are with each other. I think of the things Mom revealed to me on the way back to the cottage- that not all of it had been a lie. Not the really important things.

And I smile.

"Sure," I say, getting to my feet, "beef in a bun sounds great."

Normal is highly overrated.

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

Because Jack got to the phone first, I have to wait, and watch him get the news. His face tells me nothing- does it ever? The man is incapable of expressing involuntary facial emotion. He can only convey feelings when he tells himself to- Sydney suggested therapy of some sort, and he actually considered it, but we looked into it, and found depressingly little help available for voluntarily emoting ex-spies, so we had to drop it.

Now I'm wishing we had pressed harder, since I'm going crazy waiting to learn something- anything. I consider faking a seizure, and then grabbing the phone when he comes to my aid, but his knuckles are bone white as he grips it and I expect the handle to crack any second under the pressure, so I doubt I'd be able to get it away from him. Instead, I make a point of leaning in towards him, expressing an anxiety that needs no accentuation. I am scared to death for my wife and child, and that's all it takes to convey an unsettlingly tormented expression.

"Yes, yes," he is saying in a low voice. "Yes. But you have no idea where- yes. All right. Is there any indication that he- that they- no?" there is a quick outrush of breath that I take to be relief, and he speaks again. "Yes. Thank-you. Will you be- yes? All right. We'll expect you. Is there anything we should do? All right. Yes, fine. Thank-you. Good-bye."

He hangs up, his face working, and turns to look at me.

"Jack, don't do this to me," I say through clenched teeth. "Just tell me what happened."

"They can't find Cole. They found the room Sydney called from, and it was empty. So was the room Cole was occupying himself. Cole seems to have slipped us, for now."

"But- what about Sydney and Emily?"

"There's no sign of them. But that doesn't necessarily mean he took them- it's possible Sydney was able to get away with Emily, and he either ran after them, or away, because he knew she would send people to get him. There is no evidence that he took them with him."

"But you think he did," I say quietly, sinking down to the floor, my back against the wall. "You think he took them with him, don't you?"

Jack sighs.

"Mike, I'm not the best person-"

"_Don't you_."

He sighs once more.

"It would seem the- logical conclusion, yes. If we were getting too close, and he somehow knew it- he might have gone, and taken them with him, yes, it is possible. But we both know Sydney, Michael. We both know she is not just going to give up without a fight. She isn't like that, and you know it. So there is no reason for us to assume the worst."

"I know that," I sigh, burying my face in my hands, "but I'm going to anyway."

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

Beef in a bun is actually very good. Mom added a few spices to it, so it tastes better than your average hamburger, and much better than the typical hot dog. When I've polished off three of them, plus a tall glass of iced tea and two thick chocolate-chip cookies, I am more than satisfied.

"Mom, that was delicious. Where did you learn to do that?"

"I was born doing that," she sniffs, clearing the plates away. "And you were, too. Do you remember, when you were five, you made us peanut butter cookies? I mean, I read some parts of the recipe to you, but you made them all by yourself. And you did a spectacular job. Do you remember that?"

I picture the golden brown cookies emerging from the oven. I feel them, hot and crumbly, in my mouth. I taste the sweet, rich peanut flavor on my tongue, and cold, smooth milk that washes the crumbs down my throat.

"Yeah," I smile, "I remember that."

"Well," Mom sighs, "since you have a dishwasher, I guess this leaves us with nothing to do for the afternoon. Any suggestions?"

"There's a band day in town," I say hopefully, and her eyes narrow.

"Not a chance, Sydney. Public is the worst place to be when you're on the run. I will grant you that it is unlikely any of those colorful characters we came across this morning are working for Cole, but it is still a distinct possibility, and that should be more than enough to keep us away."

I roll my eyes.

"Oh, come on. This is Parrsboro we're talking about! Fishing village and tourist hotspot, yes. Hideout for international criminals? Not likely. In fact, not a chance."

"Yes, a chance, Sydney. Maybe a hundred thousand to one, but still a chance." Mom is honestly troubled. "I hired my people for their determination, ability, and tenacity, not to mention an utter lack of moral values. Cole passed with flying colors, and I know what he is capable of. If you honestly want to risk parading yourself in front of a bunch of yokels to see a couple men blow on tin horns, that's fine. But I will not be responsible for what might happen because of it."

"Mom, the worst that could happen is somebody will throw a tin horn at you for looking so worried," I frown. "If you aren't comfortable with the idea, of course we don't have to go, but please promise me you'll consider coming into town with me sometime while we're here, won't you? It's a beautiful place, and the beach is extraordinary. Just say you'll think about it, okay?"

Mom hesitates, then, sighing, nods.

"Fine. I'll think about it. But that's all I am going to promise for now, all right?"

"If that's the best you can do," I smile, hugging her impulsively, "it's more than enough. Now, let's bypass the dishwasher, and do these by hand, all right? It's more fun that way, anyway."

And, since she certainly can't say we have something better to do, Mom agrees.

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

I don't remember leaving the house. I don't remember how I got here. But I do know that I am standing in the middle of the Boston Common, looking around at everything and everyone around me without seeing any of it.

I do know that the Common is really quite beautiful, but that's only because, over five years before, Sydney and I met here to discuss details of a counter mission. She had been sent to Boston by Sloane, and would meet Dixon there, so as far as we knew, there was no problem with our actually looking each other in the eye while we talked. No problem, except we might like it so much, we would want to do it again . . .

__

"This is- weird."

"Weird bad, or weird good?"

"Oh, weird good, definitely. I just- I never expected to do this until we got rid of SD-6, is all."

"I know. Me too. Would you rather not? Because if so, we can-"

"Oh, no." this very quickly. "No, this is- this is fine. I want to do this. I- I want people to not be a problem. I don't want to be afraid somebody will see me looking at you."

"Me neither."

Brief silence.

"Your eyes have little flecks of gold in them."

Silence. Then,

Clearing throat.

"Yes. Well, we'd better get down to business, here . . ."

We had, but it had been incredibly hard to concentrate. She had kept flicking one little strand of hair behind her ear each time it escaped, and she smelled fantastic. It had made me hope I did too, which was weird, because I probably smelled just like I did on every other day of the year, and I'd never worried about that before. I had given her the counter mission eventually, but we had both realized that looking at each other in public was not going to work for other missions. It was far too distracting.

Now, i'is as if she's still sitting right in front of me. I can see the sweeping indentation of her cheek as she smiles, and deep dimples appear on either side of her mouth. I can see the long, fine-boned, aristocratic hand as it tucks back a lock of hair- her real hair, for once, tawny brown and poker-straight. I can see those big, liquid brown eyes as she sneaks glances at me from under long, dark lashes, and I can still feel my heart fighting to get loose and shout to the world that I am madly in love with this woman, but a stupid, eight-letter word is keeping me glued to the park bench beside her, my hands by my sides.

Protocol.

Devlin's idiotic protocol.

__

'It is to be considered as being a massive breach of conduct if at any time a handler is found to have made overtures towards his or her asset that would suggest an interest in any relationship other than one which is strictly professional. Such behavior is grossly inappropriate, and cannot possibly be looked upon in too severe a manner.'

I had always thought those sentences were funny, until I met Sydney. Then I found them agonizing. They mocked me every time I looked at them in my rule book. They may have spelled something different, but what they were really saying was 'You can't have her. You never can'.

Later on, shortly before the wedding, Weiss said he had always wondered why I went through so many rule books once I was assigned to the SD-6 case.

But I think the whole time he really knew.

Knew that it was torture for me to go to the warehouse, and see her only from afar, no matter how close I sat. Or, even worse, when we were out in public, and I couldn't see her at all.

Because of that idiotic book that sat first in my pocket, then in my briefcase, then in my bottom desk drawer, and finally in my trash can, my fireplace, at the bottom of the ocean beside Sydney's pager, and under the wheels of whatever vehicle happened to be passing by.

I hated that book. I killed it many times.

Now, it's no longer the book that's keeping me from Sydney, but something much larger, and much more threatening. But a man can't be replaced like that little rule book could, and the temptation to throw him, too, off the pier is becoming almost more than I can bear . . .

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

My day with Mom was truly a blessing, even without tin horns and yokels surrounding us (so sue me, but I've always enjoyed Band Day). After we washed the dishes we sat out on the deck, just talking. We talked for three hours without stopping, and then we went for a walk along the river, and even took off our shoes to go wading when it got too hot.

We collaborated on supper, which turned out very well, we agreed, and again did the dishes together. There was some debate as to whether or not we should stay in, or go for a walk, but in the end we first took a walk in the chilling evening air, and then came back to build up a fire, sit back, and read.

It is so unreal, even now, to think that she is sitting right beside me, her bare feet propped up on a footstool, being toasted by the flames, that I have to keep stealing peeks at her over the top of my Agatha Christie. Even Tommy and Tuppence Beresford are not half so interesting as this fascinating woman I have never really known, and every glance I get at her is like a little treasure to me.

It's only after the sixth or seventh peek that I realise she is sneaking them of me, too . . .

O0O0O

I want to stay up and wait for Emily to arrive, but Patti called to say that their flight was delayed so she doesn't know what time they'll be getting in, and Mom convinces me to at least go to bed, if not to sleep.

"You need your rest, if you're going to be looking after an infant," she points out. "It's hardly fair to Emily for you to put your excitement ahead of your restfulness, which will directly affect your ability to care for her."

I know she's right, but it's still incredibly hard for me to lie still under a light summer sheet, stiff as a board, and listen to the silence.

Of curse, it isn't really silence. The night sounds fill the air- crickets, frogs, night birds and nocturnal animals all compete for center stage, making up a glorious natural symphony that slowly but surely eases some of then tensions from my body. I don't know when, exactly, it happens, but at some point between ten and midnight, I drift off to sleep, serenaded by a chorus of musically gifted wildlife.

I awake, however, exactly at one thirty six the next morning in the pitch darkness to the sound of a car turning into the drive.

O0O0O

O0O0O

Part Eight is hereby completed, and I managed it so quickly because I have a few days off before I have to go back to work, so Nine might come before Monday, if I hustle. Even so, I'm going to need a lot of positive feedback to make the next few chapters worth working on, because I'm finding it very tiring to successfully manage my little balancing act of family/work/writing.

I am, by the way, enjoying your reviews. I read them. I really do. I just can't answer all of your questions as fast as they come up. I do, however, want to thank Monica for correcting me on the Sydney-doesn't speak-Italian _faux pas_, which occurred because I haven't seen the episode where they break into the Vatican. Of all constructive criticisms, it's catching the little technicalities that I appreciate the most. I think, though, that Alias should add Italian to the list of languages Sydney and Vaughn (I find it hard to think of him as Mike myself, but I don't think Sydney would call him Vaughn after four years of marriage, so I have to force myself) speak. They don't seem to be overly dedicated to keeping it accurate, do they?

I also wanted to reassure those people who come up all puzzled at the end of chapters, asking me questions like "how are they going to do that?" or "hey, what about-" that I am usually very careful about what I write. I read, re-read and re-re-read before I post, so every gap you find is either going to be filled in at some point in this story, or at least covered over, so it will leave me room to work on it in my next fic. For example, I knew exactly how I wanted Patti to track down Emily, but every time I tried to work it in while I was working on chapter seven, it didn't fit. I decided then to wait for this chapter and use it here instead.

Did I miss anything? Let me know, and tell me what you think!


	9. Chapter Nine

O0O0O

_I want to stay up and wait for Emily to arrive, but Patti called to say that their flight was delayed for a short time, so she doesn't know what time they'll be getting in, and Mom convinces me to at least go to bed, if not to sleep._

_"You need your rest, if you're going to be looking after an infant," she points out. "It's hardly fair to Emily for you to put your excitement ahead of your restfulness, which will directly affect your ability to care for her."_

_I know she's right, but it's still incredibly hard for me to lie still under a light summer sheet, stiff as a board, and listen to the silence._

_Of curse, it isn't really silence. The night sounds fill the air- crickets, frogs, night birds and nocturnal animals all compete for center stage, making up a glorious natural symphony that slowly but surely eases some of then tensions from my body. I don't know when, exactly, it happens, but at some point between ten and midnight, I drift off to sleep, serenaded by a chorus of musically gifted wildlife._

_I awake, however, exactly at one thirty six the next morning in the pitch darkness to the sound of a car turning into the drive_.

O0O0O

As fast as Mom is able to get ready, I still beat her to the door. I have it open in less than a second, and it's probably a good thing it wasn't locked, or else I'd have ripped it right out of the wall to get outside sooner.

Patti is just emerging from the passenger side of the car and opening the back door when I tackle her in the meagre illumination of our porch light, and, close to tears, beg,

"Let me hold her. Please, Patti, you have no idea . . ."

Patti, a mother of three, knows exactly what I need, and doesn't even bother with the baby seat but passes me my baby- a tiny, warm, soft weight of sleeping innocence that I sob over until she is awake, confused, and thoroughly wet.

By now Mom has joined us, tying a lounging robe at the waist as she comes forward, and bends her head over her granddaughter. She doesn't bother asking to hold her, because she knows how much I need this, but instead speaks in soft, reverent tones.

"My word, Sydney, she's perfection."

She truly is.

And, because I am too absorbed in my child to bother with necessary social graces, Mom reaches over Emily to extend her hand to Patti.

"Laura Bristow, Sydney's mother. You must be Patti."

"Yes, I am. Sydney's mother? We've been wondering when we would get to meet you! Sweetheart, come over here, this is Laura Bristow- she's Sydney's mother!"

Introductions swirl around me, but all I can see is my baby girl. I do dimly hear Mom asking Patti if they can stay the night, because it's so late, but Patti refuses.

"We promised the boys we'd be there when they woke up, and we are going to be, so we'll have to be going. But it's been lovely meeting you, Laura, and hopefully you'll stop in Sackville before you head back home."

Mom promises to consider it, and, collecting the baby seat and a few necessities that were purchased in Boston for Emily's use, sees them off. Then she steers me into the house, gently breaking my reverie.

"My dear, she isn't going to vanish if you blink," she points out, smiling, and I manage to tear my eyes away long enough to smile back.

"I know, but it sure feels like she will. I don't want to let go, even for a second."

"I am aware of that, but you do need to sleep, and so does she. Why don't we set the car seat on a chair by your bed, so she'll be right beside you all night? Or- all morning, I suppose it is. I have these things here that have to go away," she holds up some diapers and bottles, plus a few items of cheap, Wal-Mart baby clothing, "but then we really _do_ need to get some sleep."

Why does my mother have to be so practical? Yes, of course she is right, but that doesn't make it any easier for me to close my eyes on the sight of my daughter settling into her makeshift bed as if she lay on feather pillows. Those big, brown eyes settle closed long before mine do, a thumb stealing up to that rosebud mouth, and the little sighs becoming deep and regular as she drifts off to sleep.

She looks so perfect; so innocent; so fragile in the pale moonlight that washes in through the window, that I am suddenly almost afraid to touch her, for fear I might break her. Instead, I whisper the same thing I did the very day she was born, and Vaughn and I were dumbstruck by the beautiful thing we had helped create-

"I will _always_ protect you."

Then I listen to make sure Mom is asleep before I reach for the phone by my bed, and start to dial.

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

I don't know how long I wandered aimlessly around the Common, but by the time I get back to the house, it would be pitch black but for a bright, full moon and far too many lights. The Hansons and their staff are all sound asleep, and doubtless have been for ages, but Jack is waiting up.

"I was worried," he says shortly, the second I come in the door. "I thought we'd have to start dragging the Charles tomorrow morning for your body. Vaughn-" (how long has it been since he called me Vaughn?) "you cannot help Sydney like this. You're only making it harder on yourself, and you'll be in no condition to look after them when we do find them."

"But Cole could be in Australia by now!" I exclaim. "How can you be so calm?!"

"He's not in Australia, because he hasn't taken a plane. We're covering all the airports in the state, as well as the ones within a day's driving distance. Devlin even has Weiss and Dixon on the alert in case anything should happen in their parts of the world. He will not disappoint you, Vaughn. Not when it's something as important as this. You must know that."

I do, but it's hard for me to acknowledge it when all I can think of are my wife and daughter. It's almost midnight according to the clock on the mantle, so I've been awake for almost nineteen hours, but I must be running on adrenaline because sleep is the farthest thing from my mind right now. Instead, to humour Jack, I go to my room, but I try to relax by doing a hundred flawless pushups followed by the same number of sit ups.

Well, it's challenging, and they certainly occupy me, but the whole time I am still thinking about Sydney, so I can't say that I'm much distracted by them. I am just starting in on a new bout of pushups when my cell phone rings, and I hear muffled exclamations coming from Jack's room. I guess he hasn't been able to sleep either.

Breathing hard, sweat running down my bare back, I reach for the phone and flip it open, hitting the receive button.

"Vaughn!" Jack hisses, storming into the room, just as I identify myself to the phone by that same name, "what do you think you're doing? _Exercises_?! Are you doing- you _are_! You're doing exercises! At one o'clock in the morning! Give me that phone, or I'll-"

But then the look on my face stops him, and he falls instantly silent and I look up, still not believing it myself as I stammer,

"Jack, it- it's Sydney."

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

"Vaughn."

The very sound of his voice almost starts me crying, but I bite my bottom lip as my eyes fill up and I give the phone a watery smile.

"Mike, it's me. Sydney."

There is dead silence for a second, and then I hear him address my father before he returns to speak to me.

"Syd?"

"Yes, Sweetie, it's me."

"You- you're all right?"

"I've been better, but yes, I'm fine. And Emily is too."

"She's with you?"

"Yes. And- so is Mom."

"Your-" this is a bit much, I suppose, because he breaks off for a second, but regroups fairly quickly.

"How?"

"How what?"

"How everything! How did you get away? How did you get Emily away too? How-"

"I got away when Cole sent me to Italy. He wanted me to steal something from this villa, which, as it turns out, is owned by my mom. She agreed to come back with me and help get Emily. Patti actually went to Boston to get her for me, and she just brought her here now."

"But where are you- home?"

I hesitate, thinking of Mom's warning about not giving anything compromising away on the phone.

"I can't say outright. But- it's Band Day. You understand?"

I can almost hear the wheels turning in his head before he says, "I understand, Sydney, but-"

"But what?"

"You remember, don't you."

It isn't a question.

"Yeah," I smile, wiping at a tear or two, "yeah, I do."

"Syd, I-" he breaks off, takes a deep breath, and speaks. "Yes. I understand."

"Good. Now, I have to go, in case Cole could trace this somehow, all right? Unless- did you get him?"

"No, not yet. But don't worry- we will soon."

I nod, the tears spilling over and down my cheeks as I whisper,

"I love you."

"I love you too, Sydney, and I'll see you soon. Very soon."

"All right. Bye."

"Bye . . ."

Then I hang up, and have absolutely no problem falling fast asleep.

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

I hang up, and look at Jack, unable to keep my smile from crawling all the way up to my ears.

"She's at the cottage. When's the next flight out of here?"

O0O0O

The next flight from Boston to an airport even remotely close to our cottage leaves in six hours, but there is only one available seat on it. I don't know who looks more stricken at the news- Jack, or me.

"You should go," we both mumble at the same time. Then Jack shakes his head, and grips my shoulder so hard I think I can hear the bones creak.

"No. You're going. She's your wife."

"She's your daughter," I remind him, and he nods.

"Yes, but your daughter is there too, right? The way I see it is you have one up on me, so you get this one. And the next one is only an hour and a half behind, right?"

"Yeah, but it's to Halifax. Moncton is closer- you'd be getting there over two hours after me."

"So what's two hours?" he manages a smile. "We've got time to make up for it."

"Right," I give in. "I suppose I'd better pack, then- oh, and Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

He smiles slightly.

"Don't mention it. But- when you were speaking with her. Did you say- does she remember?"

"Yes." I feel that grin starting again. "Yes, she does."

Jack and I both know there aren't words for it, but the situation calls for one, so Jack goes in for the understatement of the year.

"Good," he decides. "Good."

Then he goes back to his own room, leaving me to pack.

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

When I tell Mom I called Mike, she isn't bothered at all, even though I had almost thought she would be.

"I figured you would," she smiles, dishing out eggs, bacon and toast while I feed Emily, who seems to have been on a hunger strike for the past two days. "What did he say?"

"That he'd see me soon."

"You didn't tell him where you were, did you?" she asks nervously.

"Mom!"

"It's a legitimate question!"

"No, it's not! I'm not three years old!"

"All right, Sydney, I apologize."

"Thank-you."

Pause.

"Did you?"

"_Mom_!"

"All right, all right. I just- I'm nervous, is all. And if you knew Cole like I know him, you would be too."

"Fine. I'll give you that. But please, just trust that I have some common sense of my own, all right?"

She smiles.

"Fair enough."

"Good." I switch Emily to the other side, then say, "And for the record, I didn't tell him where we were. I just told him that it was Band Day- he figured the rest out on his own."

"Of course he did," she smiles, as we sit down across from each other, "he's just as smart as my little girl. Now, let's eat, before it gets cold."

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

The wait for the plane to board is excruciating. The flight is also tortuously lengthy, and the drive from the Moncton airport to the cottage is as close to Hell as I've been yet.

But what I am heading towards more than makes up for the agony, and I know that the second I see them, I'm not going to be thinking about anything else for a very long time.

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

I will always, I think, remember exactly where we were when I heard it.

Mom is in the living room, finally holding her granddaughter, whom, she claims, is even more beautiful in daylight. I have put the last dish in the dishdrain, and am almost done wiping off the table.

That is where we are when I hear it.

The sound of tires on the gravel drive.

I am out the door before he's even turned off the engine, hauling him out of the car and pulling his face down to mine, sealing his lips shut quite effectively with my own. I don't know how other wives greet their husbands after a three-day separation, and, truth be told, such immediate and demonstrative passion is not my orthodox method, but I seem to be getting no complaints from the other end, so I might just consider switching my SOP.

When I finally let him come up for air, he looks even more ecstatic to see me than he did before I kissed him, if that's possible. We each take a deep breath, look into each other's eyes, decide talk would be cheap at a time like this, and join our lips for another round.

We are still kissing when Mom comes out of the house, Emily in her arms, and her eyes twinkle at the sight before her.

"Shall I draw the blinds," she ponders, "or sell tickets to our neighbors?"

We finally break apart, both of us blushing and laughing, and he tightens his arms around my waist before he addresses her, a new tension entering his voice and face.

"Mrs. Bristow," he says, and then he sees Emily in my mother's arms, and for a moment my mother ceases to exist. I think I must, too. My arm now tucked into his where I always keep it when I'm near him, he pulls me along behind him so he can take Emily into his arms.

"She is a wonderful girl," Mom smiles, watching as he kisses her forehead twice, then hugs her firmly against his chest.

"Yeah," he breathes, "they both are."

I see Mom's smile broaden into firm approval, and I know that he's won her over completely, even if I can't say the same for her to him.

"Why don't you come inside," she suggests, "and sit down? I," she adds, "will turn the car off for you."

We nod in agreement, and, Mike still holding Emily against him with his left arm, and me to him with his right, we proceed inside.

The living room seems the best choice right now, so we sit on the couch, and take turns passing Emily back and forth between us, stealing a kiss every now and then while we share news. He tells me Dad will be not long coming, and that there is still a nationwide manhunt out for Cole, though he is expected to be caught within a few days.

"He had better be," I say, troubled. "I don't want to have to worry about him and Sloane. At least, as far as we know, Sloane doesn't know where we live. Cole does."

"But we aren't going to think about that right now," Mike decides, passing Emily over to me, so I can settle her head in the crook of my arm before he puts one arm around my shoulders, and lets Emily grip the finger of his other hand. "Instead, we're going to think about us, and being a family, no matter where we might have to stay until Cole is caught."

"Could we maybe just stay here?" I ask hopefully, and he smiles.

"Sounds fine to me. Only- there's only one guest room. Remember? We turned the third room into a nursery when Emily came along."

"Yes. So?"

"Well- we have your mom and your dad, and they can't sleep in the same room, can they?"

"We did for a decade," Mom announces crisply, returning from outside, "and I am an adult, and I can ensure that your father acts the part of one, Sydney, so I don't see why your husband would think we can't. And if there's a problem with that, I'll take the couch."

"You know Dad will say the same thing, Mom," I roll my eyes, and she flashes a positively devilish grin.

"Yes, I do, but I thought it best that I sound noble and self-sacrificing. Bless your father for being such a gentleman- I detest pull-outs."

I am so giddy with relief at having three quarters of my family with me, I could have laughed if she had said she was planning on blowing up half of North America. This has no trouble eliciting a chuckle from me, and Mike obliges as well.

"So- he'll be arriving when?" Mom wonders, and try though she might to hide it, there is an undercurrent of anxiety in her voice.

"An hour and a half, if everything runs according to schedule," Mike says, the tension creeping back into his voice as he addresses her, although his arm is still maintaining a comfortable pressure along my shoulders. "The soonest flight didn't have two seats available, and it was awful for a second- we both wanted to go so badly, but we knew only one of us could, and no way were we waiting for a later flight. So Jack said I should go, and I'm glad he insisted, because I wouldn't have been strong enough to return the favour. I was dying without you."

He looks at me, the strain of the past few days written all over his face. I touch the three little wrinkles in his forehead, and, one by one, I kiss them smooth.

"It's okay," I reassure him, my hand moving down to his cheek, so I can keep his face directed at mine (as if he actually looks ready to look anywhere else! He's looking at me like a drowning man eyes a life preserver) as I speak. "It's okay. It's almost over."

Mom tactfully removes Emily from my lap, and leaves us alone together.

By the time Dad's car pulls into the driveway, Vaughn and I have thoroughly exhausted ourselves with talking and- well- um- oh, hey, look, is that a whooping crane?

I guess when we get to the door to greet him we look a little guilty, because Dad stops mid-stride, arches an eyebrow, and deadpans,

"Well, you sure don't waste any time."

Mike gives an abrupt, nervous laugh, and rubs the back of his neck as, scarlet and embarrassed, I exclaim, "Daddy!"

Then I am down off the steps, running towards him, and he catches me up in his arms, pulling my feet right off the ground as he swings me about, holding me so tightly I can almost feel my bones creak, but somehow, I don't care. Even with the threat of taped ribs he feels so strong- so safe. I never want him to put me down, and if the strength of his grip is any indication, I haven't got anything to worry about.

"Thank God you're okay," he murmurs, his breath tickling my ear. "I don't know what I'd have done if I'd lost you."

"You don't have to worry about that," I promise him, squeezing his neck tightly, feeling very small compared to this solid giant of a man who is may father. "I'm not going anywhere. I love you, Dad."

"I- yes. You, too," he says, and his voice sounds suspiciously husky. I draw back my head to look at him, and find that his eyes are bright.

"Dad," I say, "it's okay. I'm fine. So is Emily. And you're here, now- we're all of us together again. It's fine."

"I know, Sydney, I just- I was scared," he says simply, reluctantly setting my feet back down on the ground, but keeping his arms firmly around me, "I didn't want to think . . . but now that you're safe, I'm thinking about it."

"The problem with hindsight," I smile, "is you see much more clearly when it's 'then' than you did when it was 'now'."

"Hmm, yes," he agrees, letting one arm fall, but keeping the other tight around me as we walk to join Mike on the steps. "So where's Emily? And- your mother?"

I shoot a questioning glance at Mike, who shrugs.

"He was in the room when you called, and he heard what I said, and- well, I told him. She's his wife after all, isn't she?"

"That's right," Mom agrees, walking around from the back of the house, Emily resting comfortably in her arms, "I am. One of the perks of my method of exit- we remained married. So- I'm still Mrs. Bristow."

"Be still, my beating heart," Dad sighs, and is that actually a humorous tug at the corner of his lip? No, it's probably just tension. But at least he hasn't shot her yet.

"Well- here's our granddaughter, Jack," Mom says, and there's a tremor in her voice as she hands Emily over. "The most exquisite baby I've ever seen, save one."

"Yes," Dad agrees, letting go of me to collect my daughter in his arms as if he were handling fine crystal, "we came up with quite a stunner ourselves."

He smiles down at Emily, and she beams sunnily back at him, waving one tiny fist in the air.

"But you two came as close as anybody else ever has to having a baby as beautiful as ours," he decides, and Mike and I roll our eyes.

"Gee, thanks, Dad," I snort. "We got her on sale."

Dad has the grace to blink a little, and Mom laughs outright.

"It's always the most beautiful baby in the world when it's yours," she says firmly. "Now, Sydney, since you and Michael have had your little . . . reunion, why don't you all come around to the back deck? I have lemonade out there, and cookies, if you want any."

She doesn't have to ask twice.

It's the most wonderful thing I have ever done, sitting there, eating and drinking with my entire family around me. Sure, Mike still can't look Mom in the eye and I make sure to sit between Mom and Dad just in case Dad decides to end the temporary truce they appear to have called for my sake, but still. It's something I never thought could happen to me- something I never thought I'd have, even this strained semblance of normalcy. It feels strange, but wonderful all at once, and it makes me homesick for something that was never mine.

It will, however, be Emily's, I promise myself. She'll grow up with devoted parents and doting grandparents, even though we'll have to go to Italy to visit one of them. She will not have to miss out on anything that Michael and I were robbed of, and as soon as she is old enough to understand, we will tell her the truth about who we are, and where we came from.

And above all, we will keep her safe.

Now, it doesn't seem like that will be hard at all. There's Dad, as solid and unmovable as the Rock of Gibraltar, eating chocolate chip cookies and drinking lemonade. Mom, so quietly deadly and deceptively soft-looking, smiling pleasantly and giving Mike tips on fabric softeners, purely, I am positive, to discomfit him even further. My mother can be nasty that way. And of course, there is Mike himself. The man I married, drop-dead gorgeous and, I know, more than capable, Emily cradled in his arms as he alternates between grim-facedly listening to Mom and openly and unashamedly admiring our child. It is, I am sure, one of those moments when you decide that life just couldn't get any better than this, and you wish, for just a second, that it could stay like this forever.

O0O0O

After talking for almost an hour on the back deck, we help Dad take his things into the living room, where, as we knew he would, he insists on sleeping so Mom can have the guest bedroom.

"Unless," I tease, "you two plan on sharing it."

The looks on their faces are absolutely priceless, and I can't possibly keep back a nervous little bubble of laughter at the sight. Dad and Mom are less amused, but they do manage to smile stiffly at each other, and Mom helps Dad make up the couch before we re-fold it until bedtime.

Supper, we had decided out on the deck, was to be a four-way collaboration, and the process is so chaotic I wonder more than once if burning the kitchen down isn't a more viable option than what we are attempting here. Several botched attempts and some derogatory accusations later, we have a dinner that is actually quite decent, and some new insight:

You know that old saying about too many cooks? Yeah? Think it's not true?

Think again.

But our dinner is more than palatable, and afterward we go back out on the deck to watch the sun go down, so in all, the evening is a complete success.

Rather than sitting between Mom and Dad this time I sit between Mike and Dad, at their insistence. I think the two of them just didn't trust themselves to let me out of their sight as of yet, and truth be told, that's just fine with me. I feel doubly safe sandwiched between them, and when a person who doesn't scare too easily has spent two days choked with stark terror, safe is a good thing to feel.

Emily has come to settle in my arms, and Mike's arm is tight around me as we watch the golden globe sink lower and lower to meet the black skyline, the stark contrast almost dazzling. I find my head drooping against Mike's shoulder as my eyelids get heavier and heavier, and the last thing I hear before I drift off is Dad's voice.

"Shh," he says, "don't wake her. I'll take her up to bed."

And, with that fatherly reassurance tucked away in my mind, I feel no compunction whatsoever about falling sound asleep.

O0O0O

I actually awake at a decent hour the next morning- it's seven when I open my eyes, and see early morning sunlight streaming in through the window.

Mike is beside me, still asleep, and I brush a kiss lightly over his lips before I slip out of bed, locate a robe that probably isn't mine, and head downstairs to find Dad cooking breakfast.

"Good morning," he smiles, flipping a pancake. "Sleep all right?"

"Mm, yeah. The bed's great. That smells good."

"I hope so," he says modestly, checking one of the golden circles with his spatula.

"Did you sleep okay? I know that bed isn't the softest thing in the world-"

"Oh, it's fine. When you've slept chained to a chair with both arms broken, a dislocated shoulder and two cracked ribs in temperatures in excess of thirty five degrees Celsius, a pull out couch really doesn't bother you," he informs me, and strangely enough, I feel inclined to believe him.

"Well, that's- good," I say hesitantly. "I- where was that, Dad? Or- when?"

"That happened in Cameroon, about twelve years ago," he says, as casually as if he were relating today's weather forecast. "I was on a mission, of course, and I was supposed to get out quickly, but I didn't get out quickly enough. Sloane waited overnight before he sent in the extraction team, to make sure I'd never linger again. I think that was when I really started to dislike the man. How many would you like, Sweetheart?"

"Four should be fine."

"Four it is, then. Would you pass me the bowl of batter?"

I do, and watched as he carefully lifts the perfect circles from the pan, slipping them under the cover of the warming rack before he makes the new pancakes. The batter pools out, making a slow, even progression, and starts to brown on the underside as we watch.

"Remember you used to make me animal pancakes when I was little?" I recall. "I loved your bears especially."

He smiles, and nods.

"And the hippos, though they always ended up too skinny or too fat."

I laugh, and nod.

"Yeah, that's right." I watch as he pours the last pancake, and it spreads, and starts to cook. Then I look up at him, and speak uncertainly.

"Dad?"

"Yes, Sweetheart?"

"How do you- feel?"

"Me? Well, like I said, the odd spring in my spine isn't anything compared to-"

"No, Dad. Not about the couch. About- Mom."

"I suppose if she hadn't taken the bed, I might have been a bit more comfortable, but I don't usually hold grudges, Sydney. You know that."

"Dad, you know that's not what I meant. I meant, how do you feel about her being here?"

"How _should_ I feel?" he counters.

"Dad, if you feel weird about it, that's fine. After all, she did spend the greater portion of your married life lying through her teeth to you, and that's got to hurt a little."

"Well, we really did make our peace with that the night before you and Mike got married."

"Yes, I know you did, but there's a big difference between making up with somebody and having them in the same house as you."

Dad sighs, and puts down the spatula.

"Yes, there is. I was very much in love with your mother for many years, and when I thought she had died, I was devastated. But that is nothing compared to how I felt when I found out that she hadn't loved me at all. Something like that- you don't just get over it, Sydney. You certainly can't just . . . let it go."

"No, I know that." I agree. "But- she did love you, Dad. She told me so yesterday. She didn't when she first married you, and never quite as much as she pretended, but- she did love you. She said that you're a good person, and a strong one, and that she wanted to be Laura Bristow for you. I think- I think she liked Laura a whole lot better than the person she really was."

"Well, I suppose I can understand that," Dad grimaces, and I reach out to put my hand on his arm.

"Just- don't sell her short, okay, Dad? I know what she did to us was truly horrible, and for years I hated her for it. But- she didn't have an easy life either. And she only faked her death to protect us. She told me so, and- I believe her."

Dad studies me.

"You do, do you?"

"Yes." I meet him eye for eye.

He sighs.

"Well, I can't promise you miracles, Sydney, but I will . . . give her a chance."

"That's all I ask, Dad," I reassure him, standing on my tiptoes to plant a quick kiss on is cheek. "And it's more than enough."

I glance down at the frying pan.

"Need any help with your hippos?"

O0O0O

By the time Mike and Mom come downstairs, the table is set, and breakfast is ready. Mike is holding Emily in her seat, which he sets down on the counter, turning her around so she can see all four of us as we sit down at the table.

Before we eat, Mike is elected to say the blessing, and he sits, his face working, before he finally manages one word.

"Thanks."

That's it. He can't say any more.

But he really doesn't have to, and Dad quietly says "Amen" before reaching over to spear three pancakes with his fork. Mom holds the syrup jug up next to her face so we can all see it clearly, looking for all the world as if she has no thought more foremost in her mind than promoting Nova Scotia's maple industry, and queries,

"Syrup, anyone?"

O0O0O

After breakfast, the dishes are banished to the dishwasher, and we debate how we are to spend our day. Dad is all for calling the CIA and getting an update as to the manhunt for Cole, but Mike and I would much rather take the truck and the baby into town and forget all about it. Mom isn't entirely pro-CIA, but she's definitely anti-town, so in the end she elects to remain in her room with a book. We divide up, planning to meet back at the house by four to all take a walk together.

"It's a little bizarre, don't you think?" I muse, as I follow Mike out to the truck once Emily is fed, changed and dressed for the day.

"What is?" Mike wonders, and skeptically boots a tire. "Wow, I can't believe this old tank still runs."

"This whole family thing- it seems so sudden that it's almost unreal." I shrug, as he holds open the door for me, so I can push Emily's baby seat to the middle, and hop up beside it before reassuring him, "yeah, it runs. Mom and I had it into town yesterday when we went grocery shopping. It's loud, and it just about shakes you apart, but it got us there."

"That's good," he decides, referring to the truck's roadworthiness, before getting into the driver's seat and starting it up.

"Well, Sydney," he decides above the throaty diesel roar, "the way I see it is your parents are either really feeling like a family, or they're putting on an act. If it's an act, then they're either doing it for you, or themselves. That's three choices- take your pick."

"I can think of a fourth," I decide, as we jolt out onto the highway and head into town, making me feel very much like a pioneer woman of old. Or like a pioneer woman would have felt, if pioneer women had diesel engines under their covered wagons.

"Really? Let's hear it."

"They don't know how to act. They think maybe they should hate each other, and maybe they should make up for lost time. They don't know what to do, so they try and pick up where they left off- as husband and wife. Not," I add hastily, "that they're living like it, or anything, even though that's technically what they are. But the whole, sit-on-the-back-porch, watch-the-sunset attitude- it's a family sort of thing to do, you know? It's things like we used to do. So maybe that's what they want, for now at least- until they can figure out what they are to each other now, after all this time. What do you think?"

"I think that you could be right," Mike decides, "and I think that we need gas."

"What?"

"Gas. Gasoline? See the gauge?"

I do, and the needle is coming down to kiss the big, white 'E'.

"How far are we from the station?"

"Far enough," he replies cryptically.

"Mike, that wasn't exactly a straight answer."

"Sorry. I guess what I mean is, we might make it, and we might not. But even if we don't we'll run out pretty close- no more than a fifteen to twenty minute walk, I think."

"Mike, I have an infant here. A twenty minute walk is too long. Please do the best you can."

"And I was looking forward to a good hike, too," he whines teasingly, and I lean over Emily to kiss whatever I can best reach of him (it's his cheek, but so far back that it's almost his ear).

"Sorry, I just am not looking forward to lugging her seat for twenty minutes. Good thing I brought her hat."

"Well, maybe we won't even need it. I just want to slow down a little bit, all right? We can enjoy the scenery."

"Yeah," I agree, "I sure did miss these blueberry fields."

He laughs.

"And I missed you, Sydney," he tells me. "If you'd had amnesia when I got back, I don't know what I would have done."

"Well," I smile, "I was actually starting to fall in love with you all over again, so you probably wouldn't have had to wait too long before something happened."

He blushes slightly, and slows the truck a bit more to better conserve gas.

"Do you- do you want to talk about what happened? After he took you, I mean? Were you- did he-"

"I'm fine, Mike," I smile. "He left me completely alone, except to give me my assignment and things like that. And if he'd tried anything else, I wouldn't have put up with it for a second."

"No," Mike agrees, and I know he is thinking about Paul, "I know you wouldn't have."

I watch the gauge needle bounce dangerously around the 'E' as we move onwards, coasting down every hill we top. After a minute or two of silence, I speak very quietly.

"Mike?"

"Yes?"

"I was scared."

He's pulled the truck over before I even finish letting out the unused portion of the breath with which I spoke the sentence, leaning over Emily, his arms around me, holding me to him.

"I was, too," he tells me gravely, as I start to cry. "I was so scared for both of you- I thought I'd lost you both for good."

"I was so terrified!" is all I can say, sobs shaking themselves out of me, and tears spilling onto his shoulder, making little rivers down the back of his clean shirt. "I thought- I thought that I'd- I'd- I thought never see you again-n-n." my teeth are chattering, and since he can't erase the memories, all he can do is rock me. He does so very gently from side to side, as I empty the last reserves of my fear, frustration, and rage onto his shoulder in the cab of an ancient, rust-riddled Ford.

"Shh," he calms me, not meaning he wants me to be quiet, but simply reassured. "Shh, Sydney, it's all right now. It's okay."

Those are some of the words I've been waiting a long time to hear. Some, but not all of them.

Because he can't say it's over. It's not. As long as Cole, Sloane, and others like them are out there, it never will be. The thought makes me sick, depressed, and weary all at once, and I ease out of his protective grip, lying back against the seat, limp as a dishrag.

"You okay?" he worries, and I manage a tiny smile.

"Not yet. But I'm getting there."

He nods, knowing he can't ask for more just yet, and accelerates again, pulling back out onto the road, and heading towards town.

O0O0O

O0O0O

That's it for part Nine (which I wrote in under eighteen hours. That's a record for me) and Ten will be a bit slower coming because I am thoroughly tired out. The others will take longer as well, since I'm going back to work at the end of the week, will be extremely exhausted more often than not, and the last thing in the world I will feel like doing is updating (hint: reviews help perk me up. Especially positive ones.)

I wanted to make a quick note to a reviewer who wondered about Laura's Rambaldi work, and where it would come into play. To put it bluntly, it won't. For elaboration, read on . . . Because I myself have no clue what to make of the whole prophecy thing, I have decided to leave well enough alone- at least until Season Two answers a few more questions for me. For now, when reading this fic, simply assume that Rambaldi has been dealt with, and enough artifacts are stored in the CIA vaults to make further pursuit of them by any other organization pointless, to say the very least.

Have I missed anything? Tell me, and keep on reading (not to mention watching for chapter ten!)


	10. Chapter Ten

O0O0O

_After a minute or two of silence, I speak very quietly._

_"Mike?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"I was scared."_

_He's pulled the truck over before I even finish letting out the unused portion of the breath with which I spoke the sentence, leaning over Emily, his arms around me, holding me to him._

_"I was, too," he tells me gravely, as I start to cry. "I was so scared for both of you- I thought I'd lost you both for good."_

_"I was so terrified!" is all I can say, sobs shaking themselves out of me, and tears spilling onto his shoulder, making little rivers down the back of his clean shirt. "I thought- I thought that I'd- I'd- I thought never see you again-n-n." my teeth are chattering, and since he can't erase the memories, all he can do is rock me. He does so very gently from side to side, as I empty the last reserves of my fear, frustration, and rage onto his shoulder in the cab of an ancient, rust-riddled Ford._

_"Shh," he calms me, not meaning he wants me to be quiet, but simply reassured. "Shh, Sydney, it's all right now. It's okay."_

_Those are some of the words I've been waiting a long time to hear. Some, but not all of them._

_Because he can't say it's over. It's not. As long as Cole, Sloane, and others like them are out there, it never will be. The thought makes me sick, depressed, and weary all at once, and I ease out of his protective grip, lying back against the seat, limp as a dishrag._

_"You okay?" he worries, and I manage a tiny smile._

_"Not yet. But I'm getting there."_

_He nods, knowing he can't ask for more just yet, and accelerates again, pulling back out onto the road, and heading towards town._

O0O0O

Parrsboro is a charming little town- it boasts about a quarter of the population that Sackville does, but covers much the same amount of area, and has a similar amount of small-town appeal. True, the resident teenagers likely wish there was a bit more in the way of activity, but for everybody else, it's the perfect, not-too-quiet, far-from-noisy getaway from the rest of the world.

As we glide silently into the gas station on our last reserves of fumes, I look around me with satisfaction. My pleasure at being back here is only increased by my not having to lug my daughter and her infant seat over a kilometer to fill up that little red plastic jug, and trot back again- it really is quite warm out.

"So- you guys are down at the cottage for a while, are you? Are you glad to be back?" the station attendant, who knows us both, asks, smiling.

"It _is_ kind of nice," Mike says, then grins to let him know that this is a gross understatement. "How are you, Kier? Heading for university any time soon?"

"I'm going into twelfth grade this year," the boy sighs as he fills up the tank, which is so dry I almost imagine I can hear it swallowing the gas in large, greedy gulps. "That means I only have about three more months left to decide which ones I want to apply to. Right now, I think that I'm leaning towards St. FX, but if you and your father are planning on staying on at Mount A, Mrs. Vaughn, I just might stop by and see what it's all about."

"Well, I'm sure that you'd love it, Kier," I reassure him, "but I don't want you to come just because Dad and I are teaching there! There are lots of wonderful places out there, and I hope you'll be happy no matter what you choose. But tell me about your family- how's your mother doing?"

We gradually lose ourselves in deliciously boring conversation until the gas tank is full, and Kier hopes aloud that we'll have a good day, and maybe stop in at his family's cottage to visit sometime soon. Then we head down Main Street (it's so small its almost cute) and park in front of Shoppers Drug Mart (which is also the local Radio Shack and Sears store).

"I think you parked it crooked," I observe critically, once we have alighted. Mike rolls his eyes.

"I did not."

I study the wheels some more, and nod.

"Yeah, you did."

"Sydney-!" he is laughing and exasperated all at once. He knows I'm not really criticizing him- I just desperately want to forget my outburst in the truck, and pretend, even for an hour or so, that we're an even remotely regular family. It's hard, of course - it always is - but he's usually willing to help out, and I flash him grateful smile before I sniff,

"Well, if we bang into that nice little BMW with the New York plates on our way out, all I can say is that it's coming out of your paycheck, not mine."

"Deal," he agrees, and we head into the drugstore to locate a few things we have both decided that we need.

Once inside, Mike turns to me, clears his throat, and wonders,

"Why don't I handle the batteries, and all the other electronic stuff, and you deal with the rest?"

I roll my eyes.

"Oh, come on, Mike, admit it. You just don't want to have to say 'breast pump' in public."

"No, I-" he starts to protest, then sees the twinkle in my own eyes, and so breaks off, grinning.

"Well, can you blame me?"

I can't, really, so I relent, and while he goes to see what Radio Shack is carrying in the way of flashlight batteries and home alarm systems, I make my way past a bulky stroller carrying two adorable little boys to seek advice from anybody in the red Shoppers smock. The space in front of the front counter is meagre, to put it generously, and it is even further obstructed by an elderly woman with a walker, but I do finally make it. Once there, I have to all but perch on top of the counter so I don't knock the walker-woman over, and ask the large, white-haired woman situated by the cash register where they keep the breast pumps.

"Oh, let me show you, dear," she beams, and, once she has extracted herself from her safe haven, she nudges aside the old woman and waddles down an aisle to the very back of the store.

"You're in luck," she announces, reaching up to the top shelf, "there's only one left. Will you need any bottles?"

"Oh, no thanks," I reassure her.

Patti bought three bottles when she was in Boston, so she could try and feed Emily a store-bought formula, but that didn't go over so well. Emily has never taken well to formula, and quite frankly, neither have I. All studies show that it is infinitely more beneficial for the baby to take all of its nutrients from- whoops, sorry. Mike says I'll lecture anybody on that particular subject who even looks like they're thinking of listening.

Anyway, since I'm the only one who can supply what Emily needs, and Mike likes to feed her sometimes, too, all I need now is the pump, since I left my own in Sackville, and I'll be all set. The woman nods understandingly as I explain I have bottles already, and then turns her attentions to Emily.

"How old is she, dear?"

"She's fourteen weeks tomorrow," I answer proudly, and she reaches out to tickle Emily, who giggles, and kicks her feet in the air.

"Oh, she's a perfect doll," she gushes unashamedly, and I agree that yes, she really is.

"They don't stay little for long- you want to make the best of it," she cautions, then rubs Emily's nose with her own. "Ooh, what a sweetie. What's her name?"

"Emily."

"Beautiful," she declares warmly, letting Emily gum on one large, callused thumb, "absolutely beautiful. You and your husband must be terribly proud."

"We are," my husband agrees, popping around the corner so suddenly that both the counter lady and I give nervous little jumps, "we are very, very proud of her."

"My husband," I say, by way of introduction. "Michael."

"Hello, Michael," she is still smiling all over her cheerful face. "I'm Bev."

"How do you do?" he wonders, and they shake hands briefly.

"Oh, I'm fine, thank-you. I was just speaking with your wife . . ." she blushes slightly, and makes a helpless gesture.

"Sydney," he supplies, smiling.

"Sydney," she agrees.

I offer my own hand, and she takes it in hers firmly before returning to coo over Emily.

"Did you get everything?" I wonder, as Emily plays up to her adoring audience quite shamelessly. Mike shakes his head before he explains.

"No, not here. They do have batteries, but they're really expensive, and they said that I'd have to go over to Home Hardware for the alarm system, where they sell their batteries cheaper, anyway. I thought we might stop in there and take a look before we started relaxing- what do you think?"

"Not a problem," I decide, "I just have to get this, and some girly things, and then we're done here."

"Girly things?" Mike looks blank, and I roll my eyes at him. It's only seconds before he flushes crimson.

"Life goes on after labour," Bev laughs, tugging on Emily's sock foot. "Now, do you know where those are kept, dear, or shall I show you myself?"

I accept her help gratefully, as they've been moving merchandise around since I was last in the store, and then take my finds up to the counter, where she rings them in, and I pay for them. Then she asks if we know where Home Hardware is, and we assure her we do, before she wishes us a good day, and we walk out into a day that is really quite spectacular.

"We don't have to take the truck, do we?" I wonder as I dump the Shopper's bag on the floor of the cab. "I mean, it's only a few doors down."

Mike agrees that it does seem a waste of fresh air, so instead of driving we walk down to Home Hardware, enjoying the beautiful, if a trifle warm, weather.

"It was still raining in Sackville when I- left," he says, careful to smooth over his slight hesitation as quickly as possible. "I wonder if it still is? I know we need the rain really badly, but I can't help but be a little selfish, and enjoy this sunshine."

I reassure him that if that's selfish, then the entire population of the street shows every inclination of being just as self-centered as he- myself included.

"I don't like hot days," I ponder, "and we get too many of them as it is, but I do like nice days. And when you get right down to it, rain isn't too bad either. It's calming, kind of."

"Mm," he acknowledges, then shakes his head, grinning.

"What?" I wonder.

"Well, just listen to us! Talking about the weather! Babbling on about sun and rain as if we hadn't got a care in the world, except for whether or not our next picnic is on or not. Can you believe that?"

"No," I sigh, "but sometimes I sure wish that I could."

He immediately looks sorry, and frees his arm from my grasp to put it around me, letting me lean in against him as we walk.

"Someday," he sighs, "it'll be the truth."

I shiver in delight.

Someday is one that I'm looking forward to.

O0O0O

Home Hardware is not far at all from the drugstore, and when we step inside, it smells exactly like a hardware store- paint, lumber, oil, and the sweet-and-sour odor of new metal. A cool wave of air meets us, fresh from the air conditioner, as we approach the counter and Mike asks the man we locate there about home alarm systems.

The man behind the counter is all too willing to tell him all about them, and fifteen minutes have passed before I politely tap on Mike's shoulder, and say that I'll go and find the batteries myself.

He is agreeable, so I do, and when I come back with a few packages of Energizer CC's, they are still deep in conversation over outdoor floodlights, so, after a minute of jiggling Emily, who has started to fuss, I interrupt as graciously as I know how.

"Look, Sweetheart, why don't I take Emily and go order us some lunch? That little café we've been meaning to try, maybe? Then we'll do a little sightseeing, and come back here to collect you."

Mike manages to nod before he is swept away in the glory of remote access keypads, and, correctly deducing that I will not be missed overmuch, I slip outside into the sun.

It's a much nicer day than the previous one, and the temperatures have dropped to a quite comfortable twenty. I do briefly wish that I had a stroller for Emily, but it's not so hot that we are either of us uncomfortably sticky from close contact, so I let it slide, and just enjoy the sunshine.

Parrsboro is an exquisite little town, though I do prefer the slightly larger selection of shops that Sackville offers, not to mention the movie theatre and numerous parks and playgrounds. But then, I suppose that you don't move to a town like Parrsboro unless you don't really care about things like movie theatres and daily shopping sprees. You move there to get away from those things- to lie down, relax, listen to the waves pounding the surf and half-naked children squealing as they run in and out of the frigid Bay of Fundy (we're talking sub-zero, here, I'm almost positive) and forget.

Forgetting is something I am long overdue for, and this seems the perfect place to do it- hardly anybody seems anything more than ordinary, and that's delightfully refreshing.

As I walk, a family of six passes me heading in the opposite direction, the mother and father making eyes at each other over the chattering heads of their beautiful children. I know them all reasonably well, as they're relatives with some people from our church, but the adults are so obviously completely wrapped up in each other that I simply smile at the oldest girl and boy, who are making disgusted faces at their oblivious parents, and walk on.

More people pass, some of them very old, some of them very young, and a lot of them somewhere in between.

Mothers tug sticky, sunburned offspring along so they won't miss lunch with Grandma.

Men and women in rumpled excuses for suits hurry out of the two little banks for a too-shirt lunch break.

Young couples stroll hand in hand, so lost in each other that nothing else could possibly reach them right now.

Old couples smile indulgently at the younger ones, knowing well the incredible newness of a relationship, and relishing in their own familiar comfort with one another.

What category, I wonder, do I fit in with? Certainly not the couples, or the wilted working lunchers. I don't really fir in with the parents, either, because I am not heading in any particular direction. I am simply heading to no place in particular, and enjoying the journey that takes me there.

How long as it been since I've done that?

Too long.

Emily stirs, and settles in more comfortably under my neck. She loves it there- lying flat against Mike's or my chest, her little cheek fitting in perfectly below my collarbone, one thumb lodged comfortably between tiny, pink lips too soft to be real.

A few people smile at us both, and some point and coo, but I am largely unaware of them by now. The sun on my face, the light, not-so-cool-but-not-too-hot breeze that lifts my hair off my shoulders, and the absolute stillness of my little girl block out all other incoming information. In fact, I don't even remember that I'm supposed to stop in at the café until I've walked past it, and have to retrace my steps so I can order our lunch.

It's a smallish café, but it's clean, and cool inside. There is an extensive menu selection posted behind the counter, and the girl who is also standing behind it, though in front of the menu, is plump, giggly, and extremely helpful, not to mention properly admiring of Emily, who wakes up so she can be held and exclaimed over.

Two other girls, also giggly, though not quite as plump, who are probably supposed to be making the lunch I just ordered, come out from the kitchen to hold her as well. It's quite some time before I can escape, the promise that our sandwiches will not be long in coming following me out the door.

I head back to Home Hardware, but I find Mike has not even viewed half the available merchandise yet. I do hang around for a minute or two, and offer a word or two of advice, mostly against the ones the salesman is really pushing, since they are ones whose flaws I am only all too familiar with.

When he starts to look a little annoyed, and Mike has begun to cover his smile with his hand and smother snorts of laughter in coughs, I decide that he's really quite capable of picking one out by himself, not to mention taking the salesman's effusive praises of each one with a cup or two of salt. So, after a quick kiss I leave again, this time heading the other way, away from the shops and towards the houses further up on Main Street.

Not only is the sun shining here, but there are far fewer people, although the amount of local wildlife increases- two dogs no more than ten inches tall bark warningly from their yard, startling me into a standstill as I pass by.

I eye them both nervously for a second, because, ten inches tall or not, they do have quite a few teeth, but instead of attacking me, their mouths fall open so their tongues can loll out in friendly grins. Plumy white tails then start flailing from side to side, effectively dismissing the threat they think they are making.

Emily awakes to the noise of the barking, but she doesn't cry, instead awkwardly lifting her head for a second to meet my gaze. I smile down into those big, brown eyes, and am rewarded by a toothless grin in return.

"You," I inform her, "are gorgeous. Isn't she, guys?" I verify of my pair of pint-size, would-be attackers, and the two dogs abruptly silence, exchange puzzled glances, and then look back at me, now silent, but still happy. So happy, in fact, that their tails pick up speed to ferocious blurs, making me laugh- some guard dogs!

I pat first one, then the other, and they bathe Emily thoroughly from her head to her feet. She gums on their ears until I stand up again, and walk on, the dogs watching me go, their disappointment obvious.

I pass the rest of the yard that they are sitting in, and head further up the street until I am shaded by trees much the same age as those back in Sackville. They are tall, mighty, and ancient, and the sun can barely penetrate their leaves, even in the middle of the street, where the branches of the tree from one side of the road meet those that stem from one on the other. It's like being shrouded in stillness, and the tranquility gives me delightful shivers.

"The world may have some nasty people in it, Emily," I muse, "but it sure is a beautiful place. See those trees?"

I point, and when she actually tries to crane her head to follow my finger I have to laugh.

"You won't miss much in life," I predict. "You're going to be like me. Except, you won't have to look over your shoulder each time you turn a corner to make sure nobody is following you."

She only looks at me, slightly cross-eyed, not comprehending what a blessing that will be.

"You don't know how it'll be to not have to deal with it until you've had to," I decide, turning onto another shaded street begun at a big, blue sign telling me that I can get to the hospital by following this road.

"Well, I hope you live in blissful ignorance for the rest of your life, kiddo. Mommy had a pretty rotten life for quite a while, and she doesn't want that for you."

I pause near the intersection to admire a particularly well-kept rosebush, and then move on. Emily's head droops against my chest once more, but I keep speaking, my voice as soothing to me as it is to her.

"Mommy and Daddy both had a rough time of it, but that's going to be behind us very soon. Because Daddy's boss will arrest the bad men, put them away for good and forever, and then we can just be very normal people. Maybe even boring ones."

Do I sound painfully hopeful? I do, I think.

"Do you want to be boring, Emily?" I ask. "It could be a lot of fun. Maybe, when you start going to school, I could even ask you how your day went, every day, until you start entering by the back door and sneaking up to your room so you won't have to tell me the same thing for the hundred thousandth time in a row. Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

Emily, asleep, doesn't answer, and I guess that if she were awake she wouldn't, either, so the silence doesn't really bother me at all. In fact, I take the time to relish in it, comparing it to everything that used to take its place.

Gunshots.

Screams.

Threats.

Footsteps, at all speeds, but usually top.

Slaps, punches, kicks- every conceivable manner in which flesh may hit flesh, again and again, until you want to scream, or throw up, or just start running.

Running where? I would have asked once, a long time ago, but then, after a short time in that lifestyle, I wouldn't have asked, because it no longer would have mattered where.

Just as long as you were running somewhere.

Anywhere.

Nowhere.

Just as long as you weren't there anymore.

There, where the orders are to steal something, retrieve something, do something that will somehow (does it really matter in what way?) help the people you hate. The people you hate so much it scares you- you know you shouldn't hate anybody like this, but you do, because of how truly, purely evil they are.

Because of what they did to you.

Took from you.

Made you into.

Only- how can you hate somebody who gave you so much?

The truth.

A purpose.

An outlet for that blinding rage that otherwise would only have destroyed yourself, not the people you intended to direct it at.

The man who became your husband- that wonderful man, whom you love more than anything else you have, except the child you created with him.

They gave you all of that- rather, me.

They gave me all of that.

Granted, they don't know that they did. No way was I about to let them find out what a wonderful, if fragile, thing I had found because of the horrible thing they had done to me, because of what would have happened to me if they had known.

Strange, really, that it had been such a wonderful thing, when every time I met with Mike I risked my very life- only, as time wore on, it became a risk I took not only because I had to, but because I wanted to.

Real or not (and deep down, whatever it was, we both knew that our entire situation reeked of unreality), the time I had with him - every single second - was precious. And for that reason, there was for quite some time some concern on my part that, once it was no longer such a rarity, some of its value would decrease in my eyes. That maybe the reason I liked spending what little time with him that I could was because there was so little of it.

But I stopped worrying about that very soon after we took SD-6 down. Time with Mike got better and better the more of it I had, until one night, I decided I wanted it for the rest of my life.

And it just so happened that he felt the exact same way . . .

I shift Emily slightly, so she is now resting on my left shoulder, and I can ease the kink that's developed in my right arm.

Amazing, really, about babies- that the longer you hold them, the heavier they get. And even more amazing that you really don't care.

O0O0O

One of the truly great things about Parrsboro is, if you just keep on walking, sooner or later you'll end up back where you started from. The roads more or less connect to each other, and if you know which turns to make, you can go in circles indefinitely.

Nice as that might sound, though, I decide that it would be cruel to take advantage of Mike's newfound obsession with home alarm systems to gratify my own desire for obscurity, and head back to Main Street.

I take the long way, though- a long, quiet street lined with old houses and a tennis court, stopping to admire a few gardens, and make mental notes for possibilities for mine. I speak to a few people whose names are difficult, but at least possible, to place, and let them admire my little girl. I even take a few minutes to sit on a bench in the tiny park outside the town hall, lean back, close my eyes, and relax.

It's a beautiful feeling.

Eventually, of course, I need to get back to Mike, but the sense of security I have is so overwhelming, I feel as if there's no problem at all with just taking my time doing it.

Shouldering Emily, who is now awake and wide-eyed, I get to my feet, and start back to the hardware store. The heat is increasing steadily now, so the air conditioning seems twice as cold as it did when I first entered with Mike a full hour before. It still smells and looks much the same, though, and wonder of wonders, they are still talking.

"Mike?" I ask, trying to conceal my surprise. "Are you- well, I'm sure you're almost done, right? I mean, you've been here for- well, our lunch is probably growing its own side salad by now."

He flashes me an apologetic smile, and then, when he sees I'm about to get really ticked off at him for taking so long, he bends down to kiss me.

No scruples, that man.

"That's not fair!" I try to resist. "I'm hot, and so's Emily, and they've probably thrown our sandwiches in the trash! An alarm system isn't this important- come on, Mike, let's just go."

But he kisses me again, which is really unfair, but produces the results he desires- I melt. And when I melt, I relent.

"Fine," I sigh, "I'll go and wait for you at the café. But," I threaten him, "don't be surprised if you find I've eaten your bread and butter pickle by the time you get there."

He smiles, and my knees get all weak and watery.

Stupid knees.

"It's yours," he promises. "And I won't be more than- well, what do you think, Joe?"

Joe? Alarm system man has a name now, does he?

"Oh," Joe reassures me, "no more than fifteen minutes, sure, Mrs. Vaughn."

"What if it's longer?" I want to know.

"Look," Mike smiles, producing his cell phone, "if I am going to get to that café even one minute past," he checks his watch, "two thirty, I'll call you to let you know, and you can hightail it down here to drag me home by the ear. Sound good?"

"Fine," I snatch the cell, "but what will you call me with?"

"Oh," Mike's good buddy Joe reassures me, "he can call you from the store here. It's no problem if he wants to use the phone."

"Oh, thank-you, Joe," I smile sweetly, and fasten the cell to my belt loop. "That's very good of you."

"No problem, Mrs. Vaughn," he smiles, oblivious to my sarcasm.

I do manage to abstain from rolling my eyes, but, pulling Mike down with my free hand to kiss him, I growl in his ear,

"This alarm had better be state-of-the-art, Michael, or let's just say that there won't be any children happening in our immediate future, okay, darling?"

He blushes, smiles, nods, and then he returns the kiss.

Oh, _why_ does he have to return the kiss? I hate it when he does that- mostly because I like it so much. I mean, I can easily resist his pouts and his pleas and his stormy, silent rages, but one kiss, and I am so gone . . .

"You know I love you, right, Syd?" he asks, and there is a deep, honest concern in his eyes that reduces what little solid there is left of me to nothing but so much water.

"Yeah, sure," I breathe, "I know that. And- I love you, too."

Then, still embarrassingly dazed, and deliciously, delightfully in love, I wander out of the store without another murmur of protest and head up the road towards the café.

Oh, so you think I gave in too easily, do you? That maybe I should have stamped a little, and played up the rivulets of sweat that were collecting under my earlobes? Well, sure, I guess that under normal circumstances I would have, but I had honestly enjoyed my walk, and when he kisses me like that? Forget it.

Darn French boys.

But I don't really mind, you know? At least I got a few kisses out of it, and besides, my sandwich is ready when I reach the café, so I arrange Emily on my lap, and start to eat it with honest delight. It's really quite excellent, and so is Mike's dill pickle, which I am almost finished when Mike's cell rings, and I roll my eyes.

I was so hoping he would come, and we could have a nice lunch together, but instead . . .

"Mommy knew," I inform Emily, "that she was going to have to do some ear-twisting. She just knew it. Because even though Daddy is the most wonderful man in the world, the operative word in that sentence is 'man', my sweetheart. And those silly old home alarm systems are just so fascinating to a man that even lunch with Mommy and his little girl couldn't quite make the cut, could it?

"Now," I continue, "if Mommy had stayed with him to buy that thing, she'd be the one doing all the talking, and telling Joe exactly what she was going to buy, because she's had professional help breaking through over half those alarm systems herself, a few years ago. But wouldn't you know that Daddy would have to go and turn it into a day of window-shopping? Not that he's not wonderful at many other things, of course, but there's just something about boys and their toys. Remember that, Emily."

She blinks solemnly, and I take that as a promise.

"Maybe," I muse, "we shouldn't even bother with answering the phone, and go right down there to get him instead. What do you think, Sweetie? We won't even take his sandwich for him to way on the way back to the cottage- he'll have to go to bed without his dinner. How does that sound?"

Emily waves her little fists in the air, cooing appreciatively, and I laugh, lifting her to my shoulder.

"Fine, we'll just go down there, and-" I break off, my eyes fastening on the clock that hangs on the wall in front of me to let diners know how much longer they have to wait for their food.

It says it's only two twenty-five.

So it isn't Mike on the other end of the still-ringing cell.

But who has Mike's cell number that would be calling him now?

I frown at the phone, unclip it from my waist, hit the 'receive' button, and put it to my ear.

"Hello?"

There is a pause for a second, then a scream, and a crash, and then I hear my father's voice. He speaks to me more urgently than I have ever heard him do, and that alone is enough to terrify me, but if it hadn't, his words would have.

"Sydney get away. Don't come back to the cottage, just go. Take Mike and Emily and leave now. He-" then he stops, and I hear him shout "Laura! Get down! NOW!"

There is another, muffled crash, the abrupt report of a single gunshot, and then thick, heavy silence.

Clutching Emily to me, stuffing the phone in my pocket as I go, I run out without even paying my bill.

O0O0O

O0O0O

First of all- wow! I ask for a few positive reviews, and I get an avalanche of them! That was terrific, you guys, and I really do appreciate it. I also had a moment of panic cause I didn't want you to think I was whining for pretty pick-me-ups when I asked for them, because I do truly want constructive criticism- I write to improve, and I can't do that unless you tell me how I can. I was just at a point where I really needed to know I was on the right track, and you more than reassured me. Thank you, again and again, for what you did.

Now, I know it's the shortest chapter yet (though not by much) and I suppose that I really spoiled you with the updates so close together, and then making you wait (gasp!) three days for this one, but the next wait will probably be even longer, so try to appreciate this if you possibly can.

Again- I just can't thank you enough for those reviews. They really do help, and I enjoy reading every one of them, from the vaguest to the most specific- they're a large portion of what kept me going, here (and they'll keep me going with the next two, maybe three, chapters too, so . . . )

If you're still reading this, you have to stop now, because until I post chapter eleven, there'll be nothing more to see here. Sorry.


	11. Chapter Eleven

O0O0O

_I frown at the phone, unclip it from my waist, hit the 'receive' button, and put it to my ear._

_"Hello?"_

_There is a pause for a second, then a scream, and a crash, and then I hear my father's voice. He speaks to me more urgently than I have ever heard him do, and that alone is enough to terrify me, but if it hadn't, his words would have._

_"Sydney get away. Don't come back to the cottage, just go. Take Mike and Emily and leave now. He-" then he stops, and I hear him shout "Laura! Get down! NOW!"_

_There is another, muffled crash, the abrupt report of a single gunshot, and then thick, heavy silence._

O0O0O

Clutching Emily to me, stuffing the phone in my pocket as I go, I run out without even paying my bill.

Panic.

If I were to be asked to describe my predominant emotion at this point in time in one word, it would be panic.

Actually, forget predominant- it's my only emotion.

And the only thought that is going through my head is, _This cannot be happening. Not again. Please, God, not again._

But it is.

So I run.

I run without stopping, without even slowing, to Home Hardware, where Mike is finally filling out the paperwork for an alarm system that seems hysterically mundane right about now.

I burst in, flushed, sweating, and terrified, and it takes him only one look at me before he is at my side in an instant, supporting me gently so I don't collapse as he moves me directly into the cooling stream from the air conditioner.

"Sydney, what is it?" he demands, and I see fear, worry and concern for me written simultaneously all over his face.

"I- I-"

Words, not mention breath, fail me, and it is now that I realise, with an almost perverse calm, that I am hyperventilating.

Interesting.

The room gets hazy for a second, and Mike quickly takes Emily from me before she slides from my arms. Then he has me bend over, and place my head between my legs until breathing becomes possible once more.

_Well, what do you know,_ I think, studying my scraped knees and the poorly-smoothed plaster on the wall behind me, _it does work_. Then I straighten up, look into those gorgeous green eyes, and speak very quietly and calmly.

"I just got a phone call from Dad. He said for us to get away right now, and not go back to the cottage. I heard Mom scream, two crashes, and him tell her to get down. Then there was a gunshot, and nothing."

The concern in his eyes just about does me in, but I manage to keep my feet under me as he speaks.

"Sydney, I- we have to go. Now." he decides, choosing to focus on the most important piece of information first.

I nod calmly.

"Yes, we do."

So, without so much as a thought for the partially-completed stack of forms still lying on the counter, we run from the store, leaving Joe gaping, openmouthed, after us.

O0O0O

I have never gotten Emily into the baby seat so quickly since we first got it as I do now. But then, I have never before seen Mike vault over the back of a pickup truck as if it were just so many matchbox cars either, so I suppose there's a first time for everything.

Seatbelts are somehow done up while starting the truck, which, miracle of miracles, turns over the first time, and gives every sign of being willing to run for us indefinitely.

Mike floors the accelerator, wrenching the wheel to the left, and-

CRUNCH.

"I told you that you parked crooked!" I say, looking out at the poor little BMW. It hadn't stood a chance. "Now look! Do you know how much that car probably cost?!"

"Well," he observes through clenched teeth as he backs up a bit to try again, "they obviously didn't get their money's worth."

I could say something, but I'm too scared to speak. Instead, I quickly fumble through my purse and find the credit card Cole gave me back in Boston. Rolling down my window, I lean out and wedge it through the crack in the middle of the BMW's spiderwebbed rear window, then sit back against my seat as we roar away from the curb, Mike blatantly ignoring both traffic laws and common sense as he hangs a U and floors it.

"Where are we going?" I ask, and he shoots a glance at me.

"Which way would you suggest?"

"Definitely not back to the cottage," I decide, "so- Halifax. Or at least, take that road, and we can get on the Trans-Canada later, and double back if we need to."

He nods, ignores the 'Yield' sign at a three way intersection, and peels down the quiet road I had walked not half an hour before, without a care in the world.

How quickly, I muse, circumstances can change.

But then, I should probably know that already.

O0O0O

One thing about Nova Scotia highways is that they are far from boring. They twist and turn through sumptuous scenery, and the farms that are scattered throughout the countryside are realistic, to say the least- rusting machinery piles up in every available inch of space, and cows graze on almost-bare fields, their tails matted and surroundings reeking of their produce.

You gotta love reality, right?

Actually, I find it (understandably, I think) difficult to concentrate on the province's realistically pastoral atmosphere. Instead, I fidget, twist and turn until Mike looks over at me, the forehead wrinkles appearing.

"Syd? You wanna get out and push some? Maybe shake some of that out of your system?"

"No, thanks." I roll my eyes and smile. "Sorry- I'm just so worried."

"Well, that's understandable," he allows. "I mean, after all, a phone call like that . . ."

"No, Mike, you just don't- he was scared. My father. The bravest, strongest, biggest man I've ever known was actually scared. I could hear it in his voice, and it terrified me. It still does. Mike," I bite my lip, "he could be dead. They both could."

"Yes."

He doesn't bother trying to deny it. That's a point in his favour- he's going to be honest with me, instead of patronizing. Good. I need a strong dose of honesty right now to keep me sane.

"But?" I prompt, knowing there will be one. Mike's like that.

"But," he says, "so, by all rights, should we. I mean- I was more than three-quarters drowned in Taipei. Your father was married to the KGB, and your mother worked for it. Our daughter was held hostage by the most deranged man I have ever known, and you yourself have stared into the business end of a gun more times in one week than any normal person will in a lifetime. We should all of us, by any rights, be dead. But- here we are. We're being looked after, Sydney. I know you're worried about your father, but, if you'll look at our family's track record, I think you'll agree that, no matter what it might seem like right now, there is a good possibility he somehow survived."

I take a deep breath, sit on my shaking hands, and nod.

"Yeah, I know you're right. I just- I've never heard him sound scared before, you know, Mike? It scared _me_. I mean, it just never seemed to be an option for him- tell me, have _any_ of us ever heard Dad sound scared?"

"I have," I he admits, glancing over at me. I tilt my head to the side, curious.

"Really? When?"

"In Taipei. Just after he got me out of the hallway . . ."

O0O0O

_"Where is she?"_

_Coughing._

_"Where IS she?!"_

_More coughing. Wet, deep coughs. Water dripping everywhere._

_"Agent Vaughn," through clenched teeth and a rigid jaw, "I am not by nature a patient man, and the current circumstances are shortening my fuse further still. I will ask you one more time- where is my daughter?"_

_His daughter. How often does he refer to her as that? He must be nearing the breaking point._

_Deep, shaking breaths of more or less clean air. Then, with difficulty, speech._

_"I- don't know. She was here- looking in the window. Trying to get me out. I told her to go, but she wouldn't. She wouldn't leave me. Then I saw- saw a man, sneaking up on her. Tried to tell her, but . . . I got sucked away. I guess- I guess he got her."_

_Silence. Terrible, dead, weighty silence, filled only with the palpable fear emanating from the tall, solid man, who was usually so impassive._

_Fear?_

_Yes, hard to believe though it may be- stark, cold fear written all over his face. Raw fear for the one precious thing he had left. __Then it was gone. __As suddenly as it had been lifted, the mask was pulled into place once more, and an electronic transmitter lifted from the breast pocket of that two thousand dollar suit, and turned on._

_A brief, but visible, twitch of satisfaction in the mouth region of his face, then an order._

_"She's to the west. Let's go."_

_Starting away, then stopping, glancing back._

_"Better dry off, if you can. I already have more blood in the seats of my car than is ever going to come out, and that cold water will set it for sure . . ."_

O0O0O

When Mike is done relating this, I don't know whether I should laugh or cry. Laugh, because it's so like Dad, or cry, because it's so like Dad. It hurts, but it feels good too- as if I am somehow reassured that it will be all right, after all. That a man who can swap papers for a bloody reporter, fish another man out of a flooded hallway, locate his daughter using a transmitter he carries in his breast pocket, and worry about cold water setting bloodstains in his car, will surely be able to survive almost anything, and certainly protect my mother too. Although Mom, really, seems to have nine lives of her own . . .

"He really said that?" I ask at last. "About drying off?"

"Yeah," Mike grins, "he did. Not the best tactic to use on somebody who's more than half drowned- I did consider tossing him into that hallway himself, and see how he planned to dry off when he got out. But you seemed the most important item on our agenda, so I let it go. And I'm glad I did- I think he might have killed me if I'd gotten in his way. He really was scared for you, Sydney. You mean more to him than anything else. I know he's been telling you that more often now, but it isn't just true now because he started saying it- it was true then, too, even when he didn't say it."

"Yeah," I say quietly, "I know . . ."

And though I may not be completely reassured I am mollified a great deal, and for now, that's all the release I need to fall back against the seat, let the sunlight warm me, and slowly but surely lull me to sleep.

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

She is beautiful. She's always beautiful to me, though- even when she had the flu, a temperature of 106, blotchy complexion and hadn't washed in two days, she was the most incredible thing I'd ever seen in my life. And now, the sunlight playing little patterns across her smooth, ivory skin and flawless features, it's getting pretty impossible for me to concentrate on driving.

I mean, extremely. It's all I can do not to reach over, take her in my arms, and-

"Michael!" she screams, sitting bolt upright as I slam on the brakes and quickly swerve. How'd that stupid cat get out there?

"I'm good, I'm good," I say quickly, bringing us back to our own side of the road and watching out of the corner of my eye as she soothes a whimpering Emily before she looks up at me again.

"Are you all right?" she asks, worried. "Should I drive for a while, do you think?"

"No, that's fine," I reassure her. "You go back to sleep. I was just- thinking about something."

Her eyes take in my hot cheeks, and the way I am refusing to make eye contact, and in my mind's eye I can see that sweet, knowing smile appear.

"All right, then. But drive safely, okay? A breakdown right now would be inconvenient, to say the least."

I nod, and watch as she cuddles down again, pillowing her head in her hands.

I can't, I remind myself, look at her. I have to concentrate on driving. Driving is much more important than looking over at my wife. My wonderful, incredible, amazing- oh, shoot, I'm looking at her.

And where did that idiotic rabbit come from?

Well, wherever it was, he's not going back now- I guess I really do need to concentrate, don't I?

Only, she's making it awfully hard . . .

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

I am a little nervous letting him drive after our close encounter with the cat, but I convince myself that he can handle it. At least, I hope he can handle it. But then, he handled me, didn't he? For over two years- so surely he can handle a little driving.

Nevertheless, I watch him for a second or two before I feel myself drifting off into a semi-dreamlike state. I think of my mother's terrified scream, and Dad's urgent directive before that awful crack, and the nothingness that followed, and is it any wonder that I end up with nightmares?

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

She starts shaking just before the three-way intersection that can either take us to Halifax, or back to New Brunswick. Little whimpers emerge from soft lips, and her forehead twists with discomfort as she starts to toss and turn, making heart-wrenching little cries. I pull over the first chance I get, and shake her gently.

"Sydney? Sydney, wake up. You're having a bad dream, is all- Syd, can you hear me?"

It takes a second, even after her eyes, now tear-filled, flutter open, before they register any recognition, but when they do, relief washes over her face.

"Mike, I was so scared."

"Nightmare?" I ask, as if she twists, turns and cries like that every time she goes to sleep. Normally the only thing she'd say is "yes" and that would be it- she hates talking about her dreams. But the past few days tell on her, because this time, she can't hold it in.

"Yes. It was- Mike, it was horrible. I was dreaming about- well, it was when Cole broke into SD-6, only Mom had somehow gotten there, too, and she was- she was dead, lying on the floor, with blood just- just everywhere. There was so much blood . . . And Dad was bent over her, angry, saying he couldn't save her, that he didn't want to save her, and then telling me to run, because he wouldn't be able to save me, either. You were- were caught, somewhere, and I could hear you shouting, and I kept shouting back, but you never came. And then Cole found me, and he just kept getting closer and closer. I don't even know why I kept running, because I knew - I just knew - he was going to catch me anyway. Then you woke me up."

"Syd . . ." I shoulder the baby seat aside so I can hold her to me, smoothing down her hair, feeling every bump and irregularity in the otherwise satin smoothness. She smells like her shampoo, and a bit like Emily, too- milky, with a hint of baby powder. "Shh," I urge, but there's no point, since she's not crying, just pressing her face against my shirt and breathing deeply; reclaiming a little piece of reality.

"I thought I was going to die," she murmured, "and then I woke up, and was so relieved because it was only a dream. But then, I realised that is wasn't. That it was real, after all, and that he really is chasing me. And that Mom could be dead, and Dad could too, and if we don't get as far away as possible, the same thing could happen to us."

"So," I say slowly, "which way will take us farthest?"

"New Brunswick," she answers promptly. "We can go back that way, and drop Emily off in Sackville. Lisa will keep her for us. That way, she won't be at risk. Then we can just keep going, for as long as we have to. We can get all the way down to the Florida Keys if we just keep driving, and if that isn't far enough, we'll leave the continent."

"That sounds fine," I agree, "except- do you really want to leave Emily? We only just got her back-"

"Mike, please don't talk about it, or I won't have the strength," she interrupts. "No, I don't want to leave her. I'd love nothing more than to have her surgically attached to me until she hits eighteen. Leaving her behind goes against my every instinct as a mother- but makes all the sense in the world. I don't want her hurt, Mike, and the farther away she is from us, the less chance there is of that happening. And besides, we'll get her back in no time. We are going to beat him, Mike. We have to."

"We will," I confirm, letting her sit up as I reach for the ignition, and start the truck again, "Don't worry, Sydney, we will."

And though my words may have reassured her as soon as I spoke them, I wish they could have such an immediate effect on me. Because no matter what I said, Cole is a formidable opponent, and I am not sure of anything at all.

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

Sleep, after that, seems unadvisable. If I were to have more nightmares, Mike and I would be forever stopping by the roadside so he can wake me up. It's no use telling him not to bother- he wakes me up every time I have a nightmare. He hates to see me twist and turn the way he says I do whenever I'm having a bad dream. He says it's his own worst nightmare, and he just has to be selfish, and wake me up so he won't have to watch it. I love him for it, but now I'm so weary I'm wishing it weren't the case.

To keep myself awake, I watch him as he drives.

I can always stay awake when I'm looking at him- I mean, who could go to sleep when she's got Michael Vaughn to look at?

He's focusing on the road in front of him, so intent on his task that he is unaware of my scrutiny. Everything about him just gets to me- those eyes, the smile, that profile . . . okay, I hope Emily has my nose, I guess, but otherwise, I cannot find a single thing wrong with that face. And definitely not with the man behind it.

I turn my attention to the window, but I don't see the scenery that passes as we head back towards New Brunswick. I only hope that Cole didn't beat us to- I sit up, tense.

"Mike," I say urgently, "we're such idiots! We can't just drive up to the house- what if Cole's waiting for us? He'll have had more time, if he didn't come into town, but headed right back to the house. He could kill all of us the second we pull in."

Mike tightens his grip on the steering wheel. "What do you suggest?"

I dig the cell phone from my pocket, and start dialing. "I'll call Lisa. Maybe we can work something out."

I listen to the melodious purr until the connection is made, and I hear my friend's voice.

"Hello?"

"Lisa?"

"Sydney! Where are you?! Patti said she saw you, but she wouldn't say where- she said she had a feeling you were in trouble, and she didn't want to make it worse."

"Bless her," I say grimly. "But right now, I don't think it _could_ get any worse. Lisa, I'm going to need your help with something. Is there anybody watching our house right now, that you can see?"

"Just a second, and I'll check."

I wait impatiently, and even though it's only a few seconds, it seems like hours before she comes back.

"I don't see any cars, and the dogs would have let me know if anybody was hanging around. Why?"

"I'm going to need you to go over and get some things for me- but first, I need to know if you'll look after Emily for a while, so Mike and I can go away."

"Sure, Sydney, but- can I ask you something?"

"Shoot." I invite, then wish I had chosen a verb that had fewer negative connotations.

"Well- are you in trouble?"

"Yes."

"Both you and Mike?"

"Yes."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"For now, all I'm going to need are a few changes of underwear and some light clothes. Same for Mike. But if you can fit in the hiking boots, go for it- you never know, in this business."

There is a pause, then she speaks.

"You remember, don't you."

Again, as it was with Mike, it is not a question. I smile.

"Yeah. I do. Everything."

"Sydney- I'm so happy for you . . ." she breaks off, probably realising that might not have been the most appropriate thing to say at this point in time, and I have to laugh.

"Go ahead. Be happy. If you aren't, you'll be sad, and honestly, which is better? But if you could do that with the clothes then that would be great. And maybe you should take a bunch of Emily's things while you're in there, too, since you won't want to hang around the house in case he shows up."

"Who?"

"A not so nice fellow," I euphemize, "who might come calling before he looks elsewhere."

"I'll leave the dogs loose," she says quietly, and I smile.

"Thanks. I'll see you soon."

"Sure, Syd. Love you, and love to Mike."

"Same to you and Tom. Bye."

"Bye."

I disconnect, and look over at Mike, who is looking a question at me. "The road," I prompt him, and when he looks to it, I relate my news. "She'll pack us some clothes, and she'll take Emily for us."

"Good," he sighs. "Now, I was wondering, since we can't use that alarm system I never really bought, should we bring Donovan with us? I know he's small, but you know what he can do, Sydney."

I do. And I know that Mike really is attached to him- so am I, for that matter. The dog is completely without malice, even when he's sampling my favourite pair of slippers, or nibbling on the newest blooms in the garden. He also has a jaw like a bear trap, and a chunky body composed entirely of solid muscle, not to mention a rather wide protective streak. I would prefer to leave him with Emily, actually, but I figure Lisa's dogs can handle that job all right, so I smile.

"Sure, Mike. I'd like to have him along. You never know- we might be going to need all the help we can get."

He looks at me with lively apprehension. "You don't want to me to call Devlin again, do you, Sydney?"

"Mike, no!" I am laughing in spite of myself. "Where'd you get an idea like that?"

"I don't know- Jack was so convinced that we should call him when we were back in Boston, I was kind of thinking that you would be, too."

"I'd rather leave the CIA out of this, if we can," I sigh. "They got me into most of this mess in the first place- they've really done enough."

He grins, and reaches over to entwine his fingers with mine. "We'll get out of it just fine, Sydney," he promises. "We always do, remember?"

Do I ever . . .

My mind kindly replays a series of images - a slideshow, if you will - of previous misadventures. We got out of them just fine, sometimes with help from the CIA, and sometimes without. But always with each other.

Comforted, I settle back into my seat.

Maybe sleep won't be impossible after all . . .

O0O0O

I wake up a little while before we get arrive in town, and take the opportunity to do something productive with the kit I purchased at the drugstore. I have just filled two baby bottles when we arrive in Sackville, where, wonder of wonders, it is still raining. No longer is it hot and sticky- instead, the ground is saturated with moisture, and the whole town has cooled off to an entirely livable twenty-five. We call Lisa from the pharmacy downtown, and she comes bearing clothing and, at our request, Donovan.

"I missed you!" is the first thing she says, throwing her arms around my neck. "I'm so glad you're all right- if you need anything while you're on the road, call me. I know people."

"That's what got me into this mess in the first place," I sigh, but then I smile, and thank her. "We might take you up on that, but for now, just take good care of my baby."

"I will," she promises. "The very best, Sydney- you don't have to worry."

"I know," I sigh, tightening my grip on Emily, "but I'm going to anyway . . ."

Mike smiles, watching as I study Emily's face, memorizing each detail. I hug, kiss, and nuzzle her for a few minutes linger before passing her to her father, and accepting our luggage from Lisa, as well as our passports Donovan's vaccination records.

"Just in case you leave the country," she says calmly, as if Mike and I skip out every week or so.

Then it's my turn to give a few instructions.

"There's still some breast milk in the freezer at home," I explain, "but only enough for one day, and you had better use it today, or else it will probably spoil. It's been there for- wow, long enough. But it should be good if it's used right away. And that, plus these," I hand her the other two bottles, "will do her until tomorrow night. I hope we'll be back by then, but if we aren't, you'll have to use formula. Be warned, though- she hates it. I mean, she really hates it."

"Hopefully," Lisa says, "you'll be back by the day after tomorrow, so I won't need to use formula anyway."

"Hopefully." I echo quietly, glancing over at Michael, who is speaking softly to Emily, his eyes serious and unguarded, revealing at a glance just how dearly he loves our little girl. For a minute, he has me completely transfixed- he's never so wonderful to me as he is when he's being a dad.

It's hard to admit that we need to get going, but the threat of Cole is still real, and the prospect of Emily growing up without us is all it takes to get Mike to pass her and the baby seat over to Lisa.

"If you could call the RCMP," I add, "and have them check out the cottage . . . I'm just so afraid for Mom and Dad . . ."

"I'll call them from here," she promises. "Katherine will let me use the phone- won't you, Katherine?" she raises her voice, and the woman behind the counter is already reaching for the receiver. "Now, drive safely," she urges, "and whenever you can, call. If I hear news about your parents, I'll try and reach you, and- I'll be praying, Sydney. You're going to need professional help on this one, I think."

I actually manage a smile. "I think you're right," I agree. Then I lean over, and kiss Emily once more.

"I love you, Precious," I tell her, and she blinks her quiet acceptance of this statement, before an ecstatic Donovan leaps into my arms and slobbers all over my face as we walk out to the car. On another day I might have pushed him down, but today I welcome the distraction, because it helps hide the tears.

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

She's quiet the whole time we drive across New Brunswick. Even as the sky darkens, stars come out, and I turn the headlights on so we can see the soft curtain of rain that has preceded us the whole way, she is still silent. I don't try to speak to her- she wants to be alone for now, and I never know quite what to say to her when she's like this, anyway. I'm always afraid that I'll hurt her, somehow- she looks so fragile when she's still, and I wouldn't hurt her for the world.

Donovan, lying in the spot left vacant by Emily's baby seat, seems to have no such fear. His head is resting in her lap, a weight of understanding that must be providing some sort of comfort, or at least distraction, because one of two elegant hands is constantly toying with the velvety folds of skin. At one point I think I hear her humming, but otherwise, the truck is as silent as a grave until we are almost at the border. Then, just as we near St. Stephen's, she speaks. Out of the blue yes, her train of thought unforeseeable it is true, but it is with great conviction that she utters this statement:

"We need a new vehicle."

"Well," I say cautiously, "I'll grant you that it's no Bentley, or anything, but it seems to be working all right . . ."

"No, I mean, we need one that won't draw as much attention. This was fine for before, but it's a bit beat up for the more urban areas, and Canadian license plates in the States are just a bit too much of a risk at this point. I mean, if the truck were newer, we could say we were on vacation, or something, but as it is . . ."

I see her point, and nod.

"You're right. But how about we at least keep it until we're across the border- we don't need any hassles with licenses or registrations right now. People might think we're in Maine for the blueberries- we could stay in Kittery, or Portland. Or would you rather go farther?"

She hesitates.

"Portland." is the verdict. "I mean, we could keep going, I guess, but what's the point? The farther we go in this tank, the more conspicuous we are. Maine is the best place for us right now."

"Fine. Portland it is. Got a particular hotel in mind, or do we camp under the stars for this one?"

She manages a slight smile. "How much cash do we have?"

"Umm- after breast pumps and your girly things? Enough for some food, anyway. And I think enough for a campground site too, if they'll take Canadian currency- at least there's a tarp in the back. We can put that up over the bed of the truck, maybe buy a blanket at the main office, or something, and sleep there. Really rough it."

Her smile is in definite evidence now. "Roughing it can be fun," she smiles, and is that actually a twinkle in her eye?

"Yeah," I agree, "it can have its advantages. We can tie Donovan in the back, for a little extra protection."

"Or," she smiles, scooting over a bit so she can lean her head on my shoulder, "we can leave him in the cab for a little privacy. Really, Michael, I'm all the protection you'll ever need."

I know the situation doesn't call for it, being so grave, and all, but try as I might, I really can't help it- and not because what she said is untrue, either. But because it's so true, it's funny, and I find I've just got to laugh.

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

The border crossing is not trouble whatsoever, and I will be eternally grateful to Lisa for her foresight. She's saved me so many times with just the little things that it makes me feel all the more obligated to pay her back somehow. Now, though, I want to concentrate on helping Mike stay awake until we get to the outskirts of Portland, and find a campground that's not filled to bursting.

It actually doesn't take us too long- it's not much past eleven o'clock when we pay ten dollars for the dubious privilege of parking our truck on a patch of land in the East Coast Campsites. Then, leaving the tarp spread out to dry, and Donovan in the back of the truck to guard it, we walk to the nearest Wal-mart for some basic food that won't spoil too quickly and a blanket or two. We've come almost to the outskirts of the parking lot when something really weird happens to me, and my feet just won't move anymore. Mike turns around, a question in his eyes.

"Syd?"

"There's too many people," I say, and hear the whimper in my voice as if it belonged to some stranger. "I can't go in there."

His face softens, and he reaches out, gripping my hand in his own.

"Sure you can," he tells me with great confidence. "You've been around lots of people lots of times. Remember London? And Italy? Wow, Sydney, you spend more time around crowds than you do by yourself."

"I used to." I murmur. "When I worked for SD-6. I don't work for SD-6 anymore, Mike. They killed too many people. They killed my fiancé. Remember?"

"Yes, Sydney," he says quietly, "I remember."

"You never knew him, though," I point out. I sound like a child. But I feel like one, too- small, unprotected, and scared half to death.

"No," he agrees, "I didn't."

"He was a very nice person," I mumble. "Good, and gentle, and . . . and I loved him."

"Yes," he says, "I know you did."

Then I hear the quiet hurt in his voice, and I am suddenly a grown-up again. Not because he was hurt for himself that I brought up Danny- he wasn't. Mike's not like that. I'm brought back to my senses because he was hurt for me- hurt that I had to remember that again. Because he didn't want me to be sad, or hurt, and when he thought I was, he hurt, too.

"Mike, I'm sorry," I shake my head. "I don't know what came over me. This has just been so much so fast- _too_ much, _too_ fast. I- let's get this done, okay? I'm more than ready for bed."

He nods, and squeezes my hand, sending a warm current up through my arm that spreads throughout my body. Thusly encouraged, I follow him across the parking lot, into the painfully bright department store, and try not to be overwhelmed by the starkness of it all.

"Now, let's see," he muses, "we need blankets, and food. Lisa gave us everything Donovan's going to need, so he's taken care of. We just need things for ourselves."

"We should split up," I decide. "It'll get done a lot faster that way."

"Sydney, you're sure?" he asks, concerned, and it's my turn to give his hand a reassuring squeeze.

"I'm sure. The sooner we get what we need, the sooner we get back. I think," I smile, leaning in a bit, "that I'll go get the blankets, all right? We're going to need some really warm ones."

"Sounds good. I'll go get us something to eat."

I watch him go, smiling, before I head off in search of bedding. I quickly discover that there are dozens of sheets to choose from, but I'm principally interested in stand-alones, and at first I'm worried they're only going to come in sets, or as big, puffy comforters that wouldn't survive the night in the back of the Ford. But just as I'm about to give up, and go see if a half dozen bath sheets might not suit our purpose just as well, I come across a whole bin of half-price thermal blankets in all colours. Delighted, I root through the selection, coming up with seven to choose between. And, because it's hard to decide when the colours are all blazing around my nose, I spread them out on the floor to get a better look at them.

Yeah, I guess it's not such a bright thing to do, but I never really thought somebody would come careening through them, sending most of the blankets skidding off every whichway. And of course, after the week I've been having, it's just too much. I throw up my hands, dismayed, and, battling tears, exclaim, "oh, that's just great! Look what you've done! I'm going to have to pay for all of them, now! You've got your footprints all over at least three of them, and the others are-"

But he never finds out what the others are.

I don't tell him.

I can't.

Because I finally look up, into his face.

__

No, no, please, no. This isn't happening, it can't be happening, enough has happened to me already, so I refuse to believe that this is happening . . .

And I'm glad, then, that I put the blankets on the floor, because they're the only things that cushion my fall when I topple over, and the world fades once more to black . . .

O0O0O

O0O0O

That's it for eleven, but don't worry, there's more to come! (no way could I just leave you there! I trust that you want to find out about Jack and Laura, too, so don't worry, that's coming. It just didn't fit into this chapter, and let's face it, there's got to be something to keep you coming back!)

And just in case somebody out there is thinking "What, she fainted again?!" just remember I cut my reading teeth on Nancy Drew, so blacking out is sort of ingrained into my standard writing procedure . . .

Cazzie, regarding Vaughn's willingness to let Syd wander around Parrsboro, you'll never know how much it bugged me, too. I kept saying, "No, she was just kidnapped, you idiot! You went out of the country to find her, and now that you finally have her back, you're going to sit there and debate Chubb versus ADT? What's wrong with you?!" But I had to give Sydney some reflection time, and get her nice and cozy and secure before she started panicking again, and each time I tried to get her thinking Vaughn just kept talking to her. I mean, the man would not shut up! So you see, I just had to get rid of him for a while to make it work.

And I really want to say thanks to Angie for commenting on how much Vaughn is thinking like Syd, because I've been noticing that myself. In defense, I can only plead ignorance of the workings of the male mind in general. I have only two close guy friends, who are also the closest thing to brothers that I'm going to get; one older male cousin I see once a year if I'm lucky; another who isn't even thirteen yet, and a father who lives two provinces away. I really don't know how guys think- I could only try and visualize Vaughn as devastated by losing his wife and child, but I really couldn't get him to think about it in a more convincing way. I would speak with my 'honorary brothers' about it for pointers, but they're both away for the summer, so maybe we can just say Syd and Vaughn are so close that they've started to think alike . . .

Yay! I passed two hundred reviews! Actually, counting e-mails and the ones on the message boards, I passed the two hundred mark weeks ago, but still, it's nice to see it here in black and white. Thanks so much, you guys, for all your feedback. I hope you won't slack off just because we're getting closer to the end- I always have so much trouble wrapping up, but I promise I'll try to do my best for you.


	12. Chapter Twelve

O0O0O

_There are dozens of sheets to choose from, but I'm principally interested in stand-alones, and at first I'm worried they're only going to come in sets, or as big, puffy comforters that wouldn't survive the night in the back of the Ford. But just as I'm about to give up, and go see if a half dozen bath sheets might not suit our purpose just as well, I come across a whole bin of half-price thermal blankets in all colours._

_Delighted, I root through the selection, coming up with seven to choose between. And, because it's hard to decide when the colours are all blazing around my nose, I spread them out on the floor to get a better look at them._

_Yeah, I guess it's not such a bright thing to do, but I never really thought somebody would come careening through them, sending most of the blankets skidding off every whichway._

_And of course, after the week I've been having, it's just too much. I throw up my hands, dismayed, and, battling tears, exclaim,_

_"Oh, that's just great! Look what you've done! I'm going to have to pay for all of them, now! You've got your footprints all over at least three of them, and the others are-"_

_But he never finds out what the others are._

_I don't tell him._

_I can't._

_Because I finally look up, into his face._

_No, no, please, no. This isn't happening, it can't be happening, enough has happened to me already, so I refuse to believe that this is happening . . ._

_And I'm glad, then, that I put the blankets on the floor, because they're the only things that cushion my fall when I topple over, and the world fades once more to black . . ._

O0O0O

I'm only out for a few seconds- it was more of a stressed faint than a shocked one anyway. When I open my eyes, though, I see him, bending over me, and patting my cheeks, and I feel a thrill of unreality as I stiffen in disbelief.

"Will?"

"Yeah, Syd," he says, a little twist to the corner of his mouth. "How are you?"

"I'm prostrate at the moment, Will. And you?"

"Oh, I'm a little surprised to have found you digging through towels on the Wal-Mart floor, I guess, but otherwise I can't complain."

"Oh. Good . . ."

He is helping me to sit up when I hear Mike shout, and Will is pulled away from me quite forcefully.

"What do you think you're doing?!" Mike yells at him, "that's my wife!"

I grin, and watch as it takes him a minute to register who exactly he is shoving up against a rack of linens that are twenty percent off.

"Darling," I smile, "you remember Will? And Will, you may or may not remember Michael Vaughn. My husband."

"Pleasure," Will squeaks. "Would you mind letting go of my neck?"

Mike blushes, and releases him. "Sorry. I just saw Syd on the floor, and you bending over her, and- well, we've been through enough as it is without having to worry about random sickos too, you know? But-" he blinks, "Will? Then- you're not- you aren't . . ."

"Sorry?" Will blinks back.

"We thought you were dead, Will," I explain, getting shakily to my feet. Mike, seeing, runs over to help me up, and I lean on him gratefully, since my knees are still not sure they're capable of supporting me as of yet.

"I know," he sighs. "That was kind of the plan. Witness Protection thought it'd be a whole lot easier to protect me if I were dead."

"I suppose that makes sense," I allow, "but if that's the case, whose headless corpse did we bury under the tombstone with your name carved on it?"

"My cousin's. I went out to get a few groceries while he was visiting, and he looks enough like me, I guess, that in the dark that creep thought it _was_ me. Uncle James and Aunt Lucy agreed that he could be passed off as me, so I could get away."

"So you've been living in Portland for almost five years?" I blink, and he nods.

"Yeah, basically. And by the way, it's Peter Travis now."

"Oh." I study him critically. "Yeah, I guess you could be a Peter."

"Thanks," he smiles. "But hey- what did your- uh- Michael mean, when he said you've been having enough trouble already? And what are you two doing in Portland?"

"I guess you wouldn't believe me if I told you we were here for the blueberries?" Mike asks hopefully, and Will shakes his head.

"No. Neither would anybody else- they won't start around here for another two months."

"Oh." I glance at Mike. "I guess it's always better to research your cover story first, huh?"

He manages a tight little smile before looking over at Will again.

"We didn't really have time to make sure what we were going to say would be believable- we were just more interested in getting away, getting our daughter to safety, and then taking off."

"Oh- you guys have kids?" Will blinks. I beam, and nod.

"One. Emily is- she's staying with a friend."

"Congratulations," he manages to smile. "So- when did you get married, Syd?"

I'm willing to answer, but Mike cuts in apologetically.

"Look," he says, "I'm really sorry if this is rude of me, or anything, but I'm actually a little leery of parading around in the open like this for very long. We have no idea what sort of connections Cole's employer has- for all we know, his half brother could run this store. Could we maybe continue this at a quieter place? Is there an all-night coffee shop around here, or something?"

"Sure, I understand," Will says quickly. "There's no coffee shop, but we do have this little- actually," he seems to reconsider, "where are you guys staying?"

"Um- the campground," I admit. "We sort of planned as we drove."

"Well, look. Why don't you go and get your things, and come stay at my place? I've got a guest room, and very elderly neighbors who go to bed by nine o'clock, so we won't be bothered there. It's a lot more comfortable than a sleeping bag, too."

I grin, and gesture at the scattered, trampled blankets.

"I don't know- they were pretty soft, from what I could tell."

"You were just going to use blankets?" Will asks, and Mike shrugs.

"Like Sydney said- we didn't really have a lot of time to pack, or anything. Just a really good neighbour who helped us get moved in and organized to begin with, and so generally knew where all the necessities were."

Will nods, and gathers up a bunch of blankets off the floor.

"Well, I'll pay for these, then, because I stomped all over them in the first place, and then we can go. My car's right outside- did you guys drive here, or walk?"

"We walked. Our truck and the dog are back at the campsite," I say, "so if we were to accept, we'd have to go back and get those first."

"Sure, that's fine- I can drive you over, if you want. But whatever you do, you're not going to want to spend the night outside. It's supposed to pour rain tonight."

I guess that really decides us. We exchange glances, and nod together.

"Thank you, Will," I sigh, "we'd appreciate that . . ."

O0O0O

Donovan is delighted to see us when we arrive, though he does rumble at Will for minute or two, just because he's got a cozy corner scratched up for himself in the bed of the truck, and seems to perceive Will as being the corner-copping type. Then Mike and I calm him down, and get into the cab of the truck to follow Will just as the first few raindrops start to fall.

We drive through the wet dark in silence for a short time before my breath rushes out of me in a sort of whoosh.

"That's a relief," I say quietly.

"What is?" Mike spares me a quick glance before returning to concentrate on the increasingly wet road.

"Well- Will. I know it sounds selfish of me, but if I can just cross one more death off my conscience, I am going to sleep a whole lot easier tonight. It's just that- well, knowing I didn't get him killed because of choices I made- it's an indescribable relief to me. As if maybe there's at least one horrible thing in a friend's life that wasn't totally my fault . . ."

I trail off, resting my head against a shoulder I almost know better than my own.

"I just felt so guilty, Mike." I decide at last. "So terribly guilty that first Danny, then Noah, and then Will . . ."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he cautions quickly, looking at me in disbelief. "Back up. Strike that. Replay, very slowly. Noah? You're blaming yourself for killing a man in self defense?"

"I still killed him, Mike, self-defense or not!"

"Maybe, but he was begging for it, Sydney, taking you on- if you hadn't killed him, and I'd been there at the time, I'd have done you the favour, and gladly. And what's more, from what I understand, you didn't even kill him at all! He was fighting with you, and he fell on his knife! It was not in any conceivable way your fault- it wasn't even your fight! He started it! So don't even think of adding Noah to your list. And Danny?"

He shakes his head, looking for words that are suitably reproachful.

"I thought- I thought we'd gone over this. Before. That whether or not you were inadvertently responsible for Danny's death - and that is allowing for the fact that you knew beforehand he was going to be killed if you told him, which somehow I highly doubt - he went quickly. And he went with the knowledge that he was going to spend a lifetime with you. I, personally, Sydney, could not think of any better way to go."

I look up at him, and wonder if he can possibly know the weight that's been lifted from my shoulders with those words.

"Thank-you," I whisper. "Thank-you, Mike. So, so much."

Then I cuddle up closer, and feel my eyelids droop down, farther and farther, until I can no longer see anything at all.

O0O0O

Mike carried me into Will's house, I guess. I don't remember walking in under my own steam, anyway. When I wake up sometime after six, I'm in a strange bed in a room I don't recognize, although at least there's a familiar dog lying at my feet. It takes me a minute to deduce that, since Will invited Mike and I over the night before, I must, therefore, be in Will's house, in the bed in his spare room. A spare room in serious need of decoration, yes (not redecoration, since 're' implies a previous existence of décor, while in this room there quite obviously was none) but a comfortable bed, really, and-

I hear rustling behind me, and flip over quickly, to find Mike poking through his duffel bag. He's only half dressed, and I prop myself up with my hand under my cheek to watch him, a smile playing across my lips.

He's a wonderful man- sweet, protective, compassionate, quite frankly gorgeous, and best of all? He's mine. All mine. Maybe selfishness is a bad thing at other times, but can you really blame me here?

"Good morning," I observe, and he looks up, smiling.

"Hey, Sweetheart. You don't think Lisa would have forgotten to give me shirts, do you?"

"If she did," I observe, "she was only thinking of my happiness. But try my duffel- we didn't really give her a lot of time to straighten things out. If she just grabbed and tossed, it would be all right with me."

"I vote she grabbed and tossed," Mike decides, holding up a few unmentionables that he certainly didn't purchase for himself. I smile, and slip out of bed, locating my own bag at the foot of the bed, and a few shirts within.

"Here," I toss him one. "She also managed to squeeze in the hiking boots, which could come in handy."

"You never know," he agrees, shrugging into the shirt and buttoning it up. "There. Are you going to want a shower?"

"Well, I have no desire to go downstairs still stiff from yesterday's sweat, and let my greasy hair hang into my cereal bowl, so yeah, I guess a shower sounds pretty good right about now. Toss me those, will you?"

He obliges, and I come up with a decent enough outfit to pass muster in Portland, scratch Donovan behind his ears, and promise Mike I won't be a minute.

"Why don't you take Donovan for a walk?" I suggest. "He was cooped up for most of yesterday- he'd probably love to stretch his legs a bit, such as they are."

Mike agrees that this sounds like a plan.

"Will's making breakfast for us, so when you're done, just go right down to the kitchen," he says, then leans over to give me a quick kiss. "Love you, Sweetheart."

"Love you back," I grin, return his kiss (plus interest) and then slip out of the room, locate the bathroom, and run the hot water until the entire space is clogged with steam.

I soap myself twice, and use more shampoo than I ever have before at one time. It feels as if I haven't been clean in weeks, when it's really only been about a day- road grime, I've been told, is twice as contaminating as regular grime, and the delicious feeling of pink newness I get after my shower only serves to confirm that.

Once I've brushed my hair and changed into the clean clothes, I go downstairs and find Will singing to himself as he flips pancakes. He has a horrible voice, but he makes wonderful pancakes, so I suppose the one serves to more or less balance the other.

"Good morning," I grin, and he whirls around, startled.

"Oh, hey, Syd. How'd you sleep?"

"Great, thank you," I smile. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Uh- sure. Forks, knives, and syrup, maybe?"

He points to the cupboards where these can be located, and as I set the table I speak to him.

"Your home is . . . lovely, actually," I say, and try to keep the surprise from my voice. Will was never the best housekeeper. "How long have you loved here?"

"Uh- three years now, I guess. I work on the local paper, and as soon as I saved up enough, I sold the house the protection program gave me and bought this one."

It's anywhere, I would guess, from seventy-five to a hundred years old, smallish, but with two stories, and hardwood floors all through. It's still grey outside, and raining, but I can imagine if it were sunny that the entire house would be flooded with light.

"It's really wonderful, Will," I smile. "I'm happy for you. Do you find it a little big, though, when you're all by yourself?"

He rolls his eyes. "Was that a dig, or a question?" he wonders, and I blush.

"Just wondering."

"Well, I'm seeing somebody, if that's what it was you were 'just wondering', Miss Spy," he smiles. "Nothing too serious, but- she's nice. She might be over later in the evening, and you guys can meet her."

"I'd love to," I say truthfully. "What's her name?"

"Grace. Grace Hathaway."

"That's really pretty," I smile, delighted that he's not moping around in his solitude.

"Yeah," he agrees, his cheeks a little pink, "it is. And- so is she." He sees my delighted smile, and his cheeks flush a deeper crimson. "So," he says, clumsily changing the subject, "what's Michael like? Is he- are you two happy together?"

"Yes." I say, and even to my own ears the quiet simplicity of the answer rings truer than any gushing words could have. "Yes, we are."

"I'm glad, Syd. You deserve to be happy. I never really realized how miserable you must have been, pretending all that time, until I had to do it too. I thought you would have maybe even gotten a kick out of it- maybe laughing at Francie and me for being so naïve, and swallowing all those lines you handed us about meetings, and junk."

"Oh, Will, no!" I am truly dismayed. "I had no idea that's what you thought. It was awful- pure-"

"Torture," he finishes. "yeah, I know. I'm living it now- that 'what if I slip up, say something I shouldn't and get somebody killed?' sort of thing. I never realized what a nightmare it would have been - what a pain - until I had to do it myself. It- it isn't any fun."

"No," I agree, and for just a second I see in his eyes a reflection of my own- they burn with the desire to stand up on a mountain, broadcast the truth to all corners of the globe, and have done for once and for all with the secrets.

"No, it's not fun. It's no way for any human being to live. But after a while, Will - and no, I'm not just saying this to make you feel better - it gets a little easier. Not much, mind you, but a little. Because you start to realise that it's better this way. Not for you, of course, but for your friends- the people who might be killed because of what you, in your own selfishness, want to tell them. Because of the secrets you're holding inside, not out of fear for your own safety, but for theirs. And when you start to see that it is a marginally better thing you are doing for them by not telling them, than you would be by getting it out in the open, you find you're getting a bit number, and it gets just a little simpler . . ."

I trail off, thinking of all the lies, fake smiles, cover stories and flimsy excuses I had offered Will, Francie, and my few other friends of years gone by, and I feel mildly ill. Was any of it really worth it? Sloane is _still_ floating around out there, and all I can do about it is be afraid that some day when we least expect it, Mike's going to wake up to a knife in my back.

I'm no longer even aware of Will until he speaks, jerking me back to reality- such as it is for me.

"You lived a total nightmare, didn't you, Syd," he says, and it's not a question, but I nod anyway.

"Yeah," I say, my eyes prickling with tears, "yeah, I did."

I don't know how he gets over to me so quickly, especially with an island and a table between us, but he makes it before my face crumples, and awkwardly folds his arms around me, standing still, just letting me cry.

O0O0O

The pancakes are much better than Will's singing. Mike gets back shortly after I dry my eyes, and he sees that I've been crying, but he doesn't say anything, just letting Donovan loose to go and sniff his food bowls hopefully while Will serves up golden brown circles of perfectly-cooked batter that I suddenly cannot eat.

"Sydney?" Mike looks up. "What's wrong?"

"Dad," I say, "made pancakes yesterday morning . . ."

I let the fork fall with a clatter, and Mile is already digging for his cell phone.

"Here," he says, handing it to me. "Call Lisa. See what she knows, all right? It's not fair for you to have to live like this. You need to know for a fact, and you need to know now."

I nod, biting my lip, and dial Lisa's number. As it rings, I shiver, half afraid what I am about to learn.

O0O0O

_Laura_

O0O0O

Unlike many women, I have no problem with washing up. It seems to me a charmingly domestic ritual- one that gave me more believability in my role of wife and mother, and one that secretly gave me great delight. I enjoyed pretending that I really was what I appeared to be- a normal working mother devoted to her husband and child. More often than not, especially toward the end, it was what I wished with every fiber of my being to be.

Now, dishcloth in hand, dish in the other, a man who is still technically my husband sitting in the living room where I chased him after he broke the third plate, I find myself guiltily indulging in the old fantasy, pretending that we're just as normal as any other family. I'm washing up, Jack's reading the paper, and soon, I think, Sydney will come through the door, flushed and adorable in that dark green uniform, her little pigtails peeking out from under the beret, and beg for an after school snack . . .

Instead of the school bus, though, I hear tires of a lighter vehicle enter the driveway, and inexplicably, I tense. They shouldn't be back yet, and the motor . . . I can't hear it. Not the earth-shaking roar of the untended Ford, anyhow.

It isn't them, then.

But who . . ?

I head over to the kitchen door on the balls of my feet, and tug back the curtain ever-so-slightly . . .

I slam the bolts home, and make a dash for the living room. Jack meets me halfway with a crunch- I run directly into his chest, sending the newspaper he carried loosely in his hand flying everywhere as the first solid blow strikes the door.

"Cole," I grab Jack's arm, "It's Cole. He's here."

He's already turned around, running for the phone in the living room as I finish the sentence. I hear him lift the receiver, hit the numbers, start to speak-

With a crash, the door is kicked in, and I am mortified to hear myself scream. He has a gun, and I know even without asking that we do not. Why didn't I bring one? I always carry a gun. I feel safer with a gun. That is- with a gun in my hand. Not with a gun pointed at me, like this one is.

I whirl, and run into the living room. There were fireplace tools there, and if I could just grab a poker . . . Jack is speaking quickly and reasonably coherently into the receiver as I grab an end table en route to the fireplace, and whirl around to hurl it in Cole's general direction. It catches him on the shoulder, but not the one that's attached to the gun hand, so as he brings that up to bear on me, Jack shouts,

"Laura! Get down! NOW!" and I dive for the floor as a gunshot explodes over my head. Then there is another, and silence.

I have my hands over my head, fingers interlocked behind my neck to protect myself further, and I keep my hands there as I raise my head ever-so-cautiously.

Cole is standing some distance away, looking at the scene in front of him with a keen interest. I can't see Jack until I stand up, and find him lying on the floor, clutching a sinisterly tidy wound in his left shoulder, trickling blood everywhere. Mindless of the man with the automatic weapon not three yards away from me, I run over, kneel beside him, and strip off my blouse. The buttons skitter to all corners of the room as I ball it up the silky fabric and press it firmly against the bullet hole.

"Jack, are you all right?" I ask, and am shocked to find my eyes are stinging. I want to cry? Over Jack Bristow? Well, I suppose stranger things must have happened, but not in this century, surely.

"I've been better," he observes faintly, then his eyes focus on something beyond my shoulder, narrowing with hatred, so my head snaps around, and I see Cole coming to stand over us, the gun still trained on us both.

"Boss?" he asks mockingly, his voice tinged with disbelief.

"Not anymore," I observe coldly. "You ruined everything, Cole. You got yourself caught and arrested by the CIA, and I do not tolerate failures on my pay roster. You were fired over five years ago."

"Then I guess I won't be losing much if I shoot you, huh?" he muses, and as the gun swings slightly, so it's aimed directly at me, Jack stiffens in protest.

"But see," Cole muses, "what I don't get is, why are you here? I mean, the old guy, sure, I can see that, since he's her daddy, and all, but- why you? What possible interest could you have in them? I mean, since you're down there bawling all over him, I'm guessing it ain't for revenge. Why are you so concerned about some cute spy chick, her husband and kid, and her dad? Hmm?"

He moves in closer, and I feel Jack's hand tighten around my own, and my own respond in kind.

"Why don't you figure it out?" I suggest, and he shrugs.

"Maybe I will. Maybe I will. See, here's what I think it is. You- well, I always thought you were an attractive woman."

"I'm deeply moved."

"Mm-hm, yeah. Yeah, I always thought you were, but I kinda found you familiar, too. Like maybe I'd seen you somewhere before. Only, how could I, huh? Because until I came to work for you, I'd never even heard of you. So I sorta forgot about it, until I went back to do that little job for you at SD-6, and who should I bump into, but my old pal Pigtails?"

"Pigtails?" I blink.

"Sydney," Jack says hoarsely. "She told me he called her Pigtails."

"Yeah, that's right." Cole agrees amiably, "Sydney, or whatever her name is. Anyway, I bump into her, think 'Wow, whata coincidence' and you know what else? I also think 'Wow, does she ever look like my boss'. I mean, totally. Same eyes, same sorta face - both of them drop-dead gorgeous - that sorta thing, you know? So that's a funky coincidence, right? And I let it go. Only now . . ."

He trails off, and tilts his head to the side, studying me.

"Now, I'm thinking maybe it isn't. Maybe it isn't a coincidence that two women should look like each other. So much like each other that they could be - oh, gee, lesse here - mother and daughter, maybe?"

I arch an eyebrow and smirk. I pride myself on my smirk.

"You do have an active imagination, Cole."

"Yeah," he grins, "that's what they all tell me."

Then he squeezes off another shot that makes me jump, and look around apprehensively for the bullet's final destination.

"It went out the window, Irina," Cole says icily. "Next one goes through him, though," he points at Jack, "unless you tell me the truth."

"You mean," I return, "unless I confirm some idiotic story that the woman you're pursuing, for who knows what reason, is actually my daughter?"

"It's the truth, though, isn't it?" Cole presses, and when I remain silent, he moves the gun so it's leveled at Jack's head. Jack closes his eyes, sweat beading his forehead, and waits for the shot.

But it never comes. Because I am nodding.

"Yes, it's the truth. She's my daughter."

"And he?"

"Was my husband."

"_Was_?"

"I faked my death. He's no longer legally married to me."

"Oh, sure he is, if you're still alive. Death certificate's null and void when she gets up and starts moving around again dontcha know?" he chuckles hideously, and Jack grips both of my white-knuckled hands in his own. Cole sees this, and smiles.

"Aww, innit that cute? You two still love each other."

I'm shocked in spite of myself. "We _what_?"

He arches an eyebrow. "Whoops, didn'tcha know it? Yeah, sure, you two are head over heels for one another. Anybody'd be able to tell, just looking atcha. Was that supposed to be a secret? Or did you honestly not know?"

"This is ridiculous," I fume. "I don't know what you're after here, but we don't have it. Sydney and Michael left very early this morning for a shopping trip in Halifax. They won't be back until late tonight- possibly early tomorrow morning."

"Well, I'm on a tight schedule," Cole says, "so I think I'll just let myself out and go after them now. But you two had better stay here," he decides, "since you've probably got some wild desire to go and save your little girl, or something, right? Yeah," he smiles, seeing the angry glint in Jack's eyes, "I thought so. Irina, dear, why don't you run out to the kitchen and get me that long rope that's hanging from the hook by the door? I'll give you fifteen seconds before I start shooting up his legs, okay?"

I'm back in eleven, and waste no time in obeying Cole when he instructs me to use the rope - an old tie-out leash for a dog - to bind Jack's wrists and ankles, even though it just about kills me each time he grimaces because of the wound in his shoulder.

"Now," Cole says, as he cuts the long lead and uses the rest to tie me, "you two kids just sit here and enjoy yourselves, okay? I guess I took care of that phone," he gestures at the living room extension, which was hit by his first bullet, "but just to be safe I'll cut the wires on the way out, all right? Give you a little privacy. Oh, and hey, Mr. Bristow?" he winks horribly at Jack, "don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Then he's gone, and as I hear the car pull out of the driveway, I see in my mind's eye a long space of time stretching out in front of me. And, since we have nothing better to use it for, Jack and I decide it would be best put to use coming up with the most creative way imaginable to kill Cole.

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

Lisa is home, thankfully, and the news she has is not exceptionally bad.

"The police found your parents yesterday just fine. They were tied up in the living room, though your mother had almost gotten free. Your dad's been shot in the shoulder, but the bullet passed right through, and he should be just fine. He lost a fair bit of blood, but not a dangerous amount. They gave him a little transfusion to help him along, just in case; he got stitched him up last night, and he's being released from the hospital today."

"Good. That's- that's good. I think that's good. And- where's Mom?"

"Well, she's with him. She spent the night in the hospital too."

"Is she all right?"

"Oh, yes, she's fine. "

"But- why would she be in the hospital, then?"

"She stayed with Jack- she refused to leave him, actually."

"Oh." I digest this. "Do you know where she'll be- uh- staying when he gets released?"

"Well, I offered her a room in our house, but she said that she would be fine- she and Emily are both going to stay with Jack until you two get back here."

"Really!" I'm startled, of course, though not unpleasantly so. Nor am I pleasantly startled, either, should I be forced to pin it down- I'm really just plain startled. Even with what Mom said in the car, I never really thought of her as still being in love with my father, even if she once was.

And maybe, I reason, she's not. She probably just wants to make sure he'll be fine by himself, before she-

"Sydney?"

"Sorry?" I blink. "Didn't catch that."

"I said, are you and Mike all right? You found a place to stay?"

"Yes, we're fine. We're actually not too far away- just in Mai-" I catch myself before I finish the sentence, but I'm worried that I've already said too much. "Look, Lisa, I need to go, okay? I'm still a little nervous that he could somehow catch up with us."

"I understand," she reassures me. "Be careful, okay? I think that Emily really misses you guys- she hasn't smiled once since you've left, and she only stops crying to eat, and watch the dogs. If you can get back by tonight, it would be terrific."

"She's still with you, then?"

"Yes. Jack will be discharged in half an hour, and your mom's going to call me to let me know when they'll be picking her up. The dogs are having a wonderful time with her- they've already protected her from three cats, two bicycles and my Avon lady. By the time you get back, people will be crossing the street so they don't have to pass our house!"

I laugh, wish her well, and hang up, considerably cheered.

"They're fine?" Mike asks, and I nod.

"More or less. Dad took a hit to his shoulder, but it doesn't sound serious- he's going to be released today, and Mom's been with him the whole time."

"How's Emily doing?"

"She's probably the best-guarded of them all," I grin, and return to my pancakes with a lighter heart and far more willing stomach than I'd had a few minutes before. They really are very good.

O0O0O

Morning passes slowly. Will shows us around the neighborhood, I pick up the batteries we never took off the counter in Home Hardware, and Mike scrapes enough change from the floor of the truck for us to have coffee while we throw sticks for Donovan in the fine drizzle that hasn't let up. The dog has almost as much fun as we do, and we take the opportunity to tell Will what little we know about Francie.

"She's in California still, I think," I ponder. "Of course we weren't allowed to maintain contact with her once we moved, but there was a freak accident once, when we went down to Vermont for our vacation last year, and ran into her. She was there with an aunt or something, and we spent almost all of our time with her- she's hardly changed a bit. She's doing well, too, if she was telling us the truth. She misses you, though- we must have spent half our time talking about you, and the other half taking about Mike."

I smile faintly.

"She's always been very impressed with Mike."

Mike blushes, and takes the stick from Donovan, whipping it as far away as he can. Donovan gives him an incredulous glance, as if to say 'You have _got_ to be kidding,' and flops down on the grass in uncompromising defeat.

"He's a great dog," Will observes, and Mike nods.

"He sure is. He's pretty protective of Emily and Sydney, too. He's the only other guy Jack and I trust them with."

I roll my eyes and bend over to coo to Donovan, patting the damp, velvety wrinkles that adorn the back of his neck (as well as everywhere else on his body, too).

"We even like him best, sometimes, because he doesn't drive us crazy being _over_protective," I smile, and Will shrugs.

"Hey, if I were Mike, I'd be overprotective too. He's got a lot to lose, you know? How old is Emily, anyway?"

"Fourteen weeks today," I reply promptly, and right on cue Mike whips out his wallet, showering Will with more photos of the baby than we have in all of our albums put together. Will, though, is properly adoring, so we take pity on him, and only make him go through them once before we put them away again, and I check my watch.

"Wow," I marvel, "it's almost twelve o'clock."

"Anybody besides me absolutely starving?" Will wonders, and we all have to agree that whatever coffee is, it isn't filling, and it was a while ago that we had it, anyway, so we all head back to Will's place to see what we can rustle up in the way of lunch.

Tuna salad sandwiches turn out to be the course of choice, and I don't even make a face. Well, not much of one, anyway- I'm really quite hungry, even though we only walked a few miles in total, and there were times when I jogged twice that easily. And Will doesn't put too much mayonnaise in the tuna, so it's really not that bad at all.

"Is the rain letting up?" I wonder, in between bites of my sandwich and sips of the orange juice we made fresh from a few not-too-old oranges in the fridge.

Mike peeks out the window, and shakes his head.

"No- if anything, it's getting heavier. It's not dark, though, so I don't think we're in for any thunder- just lots of wet."

"Well, that's fine," Will decides. "We need rain badly- there are hardly going to be any blueberries at all if we don't get some water on the fields. It's been really bad this year."

It's a little strange to hear him speak of 'we' when it doesn't involve Francie, myself, and/or the population of LA. It's little things, like that, that make me realize just how much distance there is between myself and my old life- years, and miles, and a whole new lifestyle.

I'm suddenly so grateful that Dad packed up and came with us- if he hadn't, I'd never have gotten to know him as well as I do now. He might not have been there for the birth of his granddaughter, and might not have been able to phone me, and warn me that Cole was on his way- I could have been dead by now.

I wonder, then, what would have happened had I remained in LA. Francie and I might have remained in touch, but I'd likely never have found Will- I mean, who goes to Maine, anyway? And Sloane could probably have killed me whenever he wanted, and made it look like a hideously simple accident- a mugging where I got in over my head, and my refusal to back down got me killed. It would be such a chillingly easy thing to arrange . . .

I shudder, and Mike sees.

"Sydney? Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

"Oh, I- I was just thinking. About- Sloane. And how life could have been so different so many other ways . . ." I shake my head, amazed. "Saying that He has a perfect plan is an understatement, Mike. I just don't know how to put it in words."

"Don't try," Mike grins, leaning over and giving me a tuna-scented kiss, "just don't try. Do you want another sandwich, Sydney?"

It's only now that I realise I've finished mine, and I shake my head, smiling. "No, thanks, this was great. Really. I- oh, hey, buddy, do you have to go out again already?"

Donovan is digging at the front door and whining pathetically. Will smiles, and gets up. "Hey, I'll take him," he offers, but Mike shakes his head.

"No, that's fine. I'll go- sometimes he won't go if he doesn't know the person."

"Seriously?" Will is amused, and I nod earnestly.

"It's true. It took over a week before he'd start going for me- it's kind of embarrassing, really, when the dog has to go that badly, but he still won't, just because he doesn't know you."

"Well, take my raincoat, anyway," he calls after Mike, who is already heading out into the front hall. "It's in the hall cupboard. You're going to want it."

Mike calls his muffled thanks, locating the yellow slicker. Once he's got it all zipped up, I have to quickly smother a grin.

"What?!" he asks defensively, and all I can do is smother my laughter.

"You - you look like a giant rubber duckie!" I finally manage to tell him.

"Oh, thanks," he rolls his eyes.

"But," I recover quickly, "you know I love rubber duckies, right?"

"Sure, Sydney . . ."

I am shaking with laughter as he slams the door behind him and Donovan, and when they get to the end of the walk, I finally explode. "Will!" I gasp, "why did you _buy_ that thing? It looks like a giant _lemon peel_- there's got to be a law against wearing something like that around a public thoroughfare, right? I mean, it'd be so distracting to the drivers, they'd go right off the _road_!"

"It was on sale!" he protests, putting the dishes in the dishwasher. "It was raining really badly that weekend, and Wal-Mart got this whole shipment of bright yellow slickers. Almost everybody in town bought one. They come in really handy."

"Sure- if you need to signal an airplane, or something," I grin, getting up to gather the glasses, and pass them over to him to join the plates in the dishwasher. "Why yellow?"

"Why not?" he shrugs. "I mean, we get really bad fogs here, sometimes, and yellow is one colour you can see fairly well through the fog."

"Yeah, but red or orange would work just as well. And it's not foggy out- you should maybe have a clear day slicker as well as your foggy day one."

"That," Will informs me, "is a very feminine attitude. I, personally, am not a woman, so-"

"Oh?" I arch an eyebrow at him, and promptly receive a wet dishcloth between my teeth. Laughing, I throw it back at him, nailing him right in the eye, and then take off towards the living room. He's chasing me, dishcloth in hand, when there comes knock at the door. I hear his footsteps slow, and redirect themselves, so, with a sigh of relief, I flop down on the couch, and flip through a magazine while he goes to answer the door.

I've read almost a page when it occurs to me I hear neither voices nor footsteps.

"Will?" I stand up. "Will, are you there?"

"Oh, he's there," that awful, eerie, stomach-churning voice informs me, "but he's not going to be getting up for a little while . . ."

Even before he comes around the corner; even before he finishes the sentence; I am up and running for the back door. But he catches me before I even get halfway, and although under normal circumstances I might have fought back, there is just something about that gun he's holding that discourages such thoughts. And, even if I _was_ to scream, and he was miraculously disinclined to shoot me, it isn't like I'd have much hope of being heard, anyway . . .

O0O0O

_Vaughn_

O0O0O

"Oh, come _on_, Donovan!" I feel like tugging on the leash as he lifts his leg for the fourteenth time. "I haven't even seen any other dogs since we got here- who are you leaving the messages for, anyway?"

Donovan, however, seems determined that there have got to be dogs just lying in wait for their messages, so I sigh, and stand as he dribbles on a picket fence before ambling on. I all but drag him down the street as the mist gets a little heavier, and visibility gets worse. I squint, and can't seem to make out Will's house. Even as we get closer I can't pick it out, and finally, when we're almost to the driveway, I see why- there's another car in the drive.

A friend, maybe?

Or maybe not.

Suddenly wary, I am making my way cautiously up to the front door, when another car comes roaring down the street, and draws to a screeching halt by the curb. I blink, disbelieving, as Jack Bristow works his way out from behind the driver's wheel, and Laura pops out from the passenger side.

"I _told_ you that you couldn't drive!" she yells at him, "you almost _killed_ that poor woman and her kids! It's _dangerous_ to drive with just one hand, Jack- you should know that!"

His eyes narrow, and he returns sharply, "Laura, after your dive into the river, I thought it prudent that _I_ pilot us for the last leg of our journey."

"Jack, that was an _intentional_ crash, and it was years ago. Decades, even! And what's more, I _meant_ to do that. I am an _excellent_ driver, and you know that very well."

"Of course you are, Laura, but so am I, and- ungh . . ." he trails off, gritting his teeth and clutching the arm that hangs in a sling, which he just brushed up against the car, and Laura immediately becomes a different person. She rushes around to his side of the car, tenderly taking the wounded limb in her hands.

"Does it hurt?" she breathes, worried, and I find that I am gaping openly at them both. They look, I think, incredibly like Syndey and I must look when we're in public.

Irrationally, I think of something my dotty old aunt had said to me once, borrowing shamelessly the work of another poet (though I hadn't figured that out til much later). "Marriage," she told me, "resembles a pair of shears, so joined that they cannot be separated; often moving in opposite directions, yet always punishing anyone who comes between them." It has always seemed an apt description of my relationship with Sydney, and now, I find it seems to suit Jack and Laura as well.

I am pondering this when Jack happens to glance up, and see me. His eyes widen.

"Laura, do tell me that I am not hallucinating, and that is not a giant rubber duckie on the lawn."

Laura glances over, squints, and, exasperated, I push back my hood, letting the fine mist wet my face. Her expression clears, and she rolls her eyes at her husband.

"No, silly, that's just Michael. Hello, Michael!" she raises her voice and gives me a generous wave, and, feeling like somebody in the Twilight Zone, I wave feebly back.

"Hey . . ."

"Where's Sydney?" Jack asks, and my face tightens as I remember.

"Inside. Only I don't know whose car that is," I point at the second most recently parked vehicle, and am vaguely aware of Laura's sudden inrush of breath.

"Cole . . ." she breathes, and Jack is suddenly all business, reaching in to pop the trunk, and root in under the spare tire with his good arm and a tragic minimum of success. This prompts Laura to nudge him aside, and produce what he was searching for- his gun, which he never got rid of, and one that I recognise as my own from the CIA.

"You got my gun?!" I ask, bewildered. "You went into my house, and got my gun, and- and-"

Jack nods, as if I had actually finished my sentence, jogging over to hand mine to me.

"Well, thanks," I say, "but I can't really hold my gun and Donovan at the same-"

"I'll take him," Laura offers, reaching for the leash.

Donovan doesn't even protest- he just sniffs her wet sandals, wags his tiny curl of a tail, and seats himself at her side, looking up adoringly into her face. Of course, she _is_ that sort of woman - the sort that human males will bend over backward for - but still, I'm a little surprised that Donovan can pick it out so easily, being a dog, and all . . .

"Sydney is in there, is she?" Jack verifies, and I nod.

"Yeah, and so is that friend of hers, Will Tippin."

"Tippin?" Laura queries, and Jack explains.

"Toothless reporter, dear."

"Ah, yes," she nods, satisfied. "So sorry about that- I suppose I'll have to apologize to him when this is all over?"

"He might appreciate it, yeah," I muse. "But for now, we need to find out who's in there, and-" I break off abruptly, and point silently to the window beside me- the one that's open, with nothing but a screen between myself and the room inside.

So it's reasonable to assume that whoever is in there has quite possibly heard every word I just said. And when we open the door (well, I open the door- Laura refuses to let Jack go first, and of course she can't, because all she has is a dog) we find that it's not only possible we were overheard, it's the actual case.

Because he's already waiting for us . . .

O0O0O

O0O0O

Twelve stops here, and the final chapter will begin sometime later than now. I can't be any less vague than that because I really don't know when, exactly, it will arrive, but I do know that it will be coming, and that it will be the last chapter of this story, barring, perhaps, a natural disaster of some sort . . .

Thank you again for all the wonderful reviews. I read each and every one of them, and appreciate them even as proof that my story is getting read, as well as getting liked. Don't stop now, though, please- I need a good shove to get me through the last chapter! And I promise that it won't just be a tidy conclusion with an 'everybody lives happily ever after'- I'm working on it even now, and as far as I can see, this whole story is just screaming for a sequel. Maybe that's just because I don't like to admit it's over, though, so you should probably tell me what you think about that . . .


	13. Chapter Thirteen

O0O0O

_"Sydney is in there, is she?" Jack verifies, and I nod._

_"Yeah, and so is that friend of hers, Will Tippin."_

_"Tippin?" Laura queries, and Jack explains._

_"Toothless reporter, dear."_

_"Ah, yes," she nods, satisfied. "So sorry about that- I suppose I'll have to apologize to him when this is all over?"_

_"He might appreciate it, yeah," I muse. "But for now, we need to find out who's in there, and-" I break off abruptly, and point silently to the window beside me- the one that's open, with nothing but a screen between myself and the room inside._

_So it's reasonable to assume that whoever is in there has quite possibly heard every word I just said. And when we open the door (well, I open the door- Laura refuses to let Jack go first, and of course she can't, because all she has is a dog) we find that it's not only possible we were overheard, it's the actual case._

_Because he's already waiting for us . . ._

O0O0O

You can choose to believe this or not, but just know that it's the truth- there have been very few times have I actually been truly, sickeningly afraid.

One of those few was probably the day my father died, and I saw my mother's pretty face twisted with worry and pain as she turned to me, and, sobbing brokenly, told me what had happened. I was little and I didn't know what to do, how to fix things, how to make it better, and that scared me.

Another one of those times was when Sydney was trapped in a room rapidly filling with gasoline. Also probably when I was in that hallway in Taipei, the wave of water rushing straight for me, and knew I was pretty well screwed right then and there.

But really, there haven't been too many of them.

One of the few, though, will definitely be this day.

This day, granting first of all that we even survive it, will probably go down in my own personal history as being one of the most terrifying, simply because of what I am seeing now- what all of us, Jack, Laura, Donovan and I, are seeing.

Cole is standing in Will Tippin's front hallway, and Will Tippin is lying on the ground looking pretty unconscious behind him, but neither of these is the worst part. They're not even close. Those I could deal with. But what I can't stomach is Cole's arm wrapped around my wife's neck. Nor can I handle the gun he's holding to her head, or the sickeningly gracious smile on his face.

"Welcome, friends and family!" he beams, and I hear Laura make a very dangerous noise behind me as I stand, stiff and still, my own gun dangling from my hand, and Cole continues to address us.

"I see, Ms. Derevko, that you didn't waste any time getting out of that charming little chalet- and you, Mr. Bristow, Sir, look almost as intact as you did before I shot you. We're both of us _so_ glad you could join us- aren't we, dear?" he checks with Sydney, and her face twists in a revulsion that very nearly equals my own. "Because I need something very badly, and I needed it, like, yesterday."

"I am _not_ your errand girl," Sydney says coldly. "You're going to have to find yourself somebody else, because I am _not_ going to get you that vase."

"Why?" he wonders, sounding almost hurt. "It's not like I'm asking you to kill anybody, or anything. I just want a pretty little vase for my boss- oh, yeah, and I want what's inside it for myself."

"Inside it?" Laura, behind me, sounds startled.

"Yeah. Oh, you didn't know? Well, when you sent me to Venezuela with it, and your buddy was extracting his little thank-you gift, I picked up a few little things around the place - blueprints, microfilm, things like that - that I thought might entertain me in my later years. Unfortunately for me, I really wasn't overly confident that they would have let me take out of the country. So I popped 'em in the bottom of that cute little vase, left it on my desk, and went to break into your daughter's place of employment. And all of you, of course, know what happened next- I never got a chance to get back and pick up my merchandise, because Mr. CIA, here," he nods at me, "and his CIA buddies shot up my van. And his little lady, here, knocked me around a bit, then shipped me off to a maximum security prison. Not a nice place, that. So I decided that when I got out, I'd get myself some gainful employment, get my boss interested in that cute little vase, and get my toys back.

"Only," he wrinkles his face in mock puzzlement, "I was just talking to Mrs.- what is it now, Dear? Vaughn? Nice, French name, Vaughn- I knew a Vaughn once. I killed him though. Where was I? Oh, yes- Mrs. Vaughn, here, tells me she didn't bring the vase back with her when she came to North America. So I was sure glad I planted that little bug on your baby's seat so I'd know if you took her anywhere- although I noticed I wasn't the first one who had that idea."

I see Sydney's eyes shift briefly to her father, who had been the first to plant a transmitter on Emily's baby seat.

Jack's face, I know even without looking, is as impassive as if it were cut from rock, but inside he's dying. I know this because the same is true for me- I couldn't make my face move if my life depended on it, but every nerve within me is aching at seeing Sydney like this. It only gets worse when she blinks, cutting off unshed tears, because I know that those tears, if anything, will be Jack's undoing.

_Please, God,_ I beg silently, _don't let her start to cry. He'll go crazy if she does- Jack can't stand seeing her cry. Neither can I, really, but he's the worst of the two of us, so- just don't let her cry._

It seems my prayer is considered a reasonable request, because Sydney does manage to hold back her tears, and bites her lip as Cole goes on.

"Now, since that vase is back in Italy, according to Pigtails, here, this presents me with an interesting problem. I obviously can't just hop on a plane and take off at a moment's notice, so I am likely not the best person to go skipping off to retrieve it."

"I'm all broken up," Laura says coldly.

"No, Irina, you aren't. Not yet. Maybe not ever- I have no need, really to shoot you. Or any desire, really- you were a demanding boss, I guess, but not an unfair one, or anything like that. So I probably won't shoot you. But I just might put a bullet through your little girl, here, if you don't co-operate with me, and get me that vase."

"You want me to fly to Italy right now?" Laura asks, disbelieving. "You want me to fly to Italy, as if I was popping over to the corner store for a quart of- of milk, or something?! And you expect me to put up with you standing there for the next ten or eleven hours it will take me to do so, all the while holding gun to my only child's head? You are not only sick, you are mad."

"Call me what you like, Irina," Cole shrugs. "I don't even have to send _you_. I could send your husband, there, if he didn't have that busted arm- even so, I could probably still send him. After all, he would go anyway, busted arm or not, I'm sure. He'd do it- for his daughter. Or- I could send Mr. Vaughn."

He turns to look at me, I think, but I'm too busy trying to tear my eyes away from Sydney. How is it fair for her to look so scared, when I'm already tormented enough just knowing she might die? The wide, terrified eyes; the short, ragged breaths; the way her knuckles are turning white as she grips his arm, struggling to keep it from choking her; all of them are threatening to rob me of what few lucid thoughts I still retain. It's just not fair.

"How about it, Mr. Vaughn?" Cole asks softly, and shivers crawl up my spine. "How about you find a nice plane, and get over to Italy just as fast as you can. So I won't shoot your wife."

"You won't shoot her." I hear myself saying calmly. "I know you won't. Because if you kill her, I will have no choice but to hunt you down, no matter how long it takes me, and I will kill you."

"No." Sydney says, even more terrified at the sound of my words than she is of the gun that is stopping the blood flow around her cheekbone. "No, Michael, don't even think about it. If you do, then this is going to be the last time I see you. Waiting however long it takes to see you again after I'm dead- that's got to be better than nothing, right? Especially since there'll be an eternity afterward- but you can't kill him, Mike. You can't, not unless you really don't care about seeing me again. Please-"

She breaks off, and- oh, man, she's crying.

I feel Jack tremble beside me at the sight, and bring his own gun up to bear on Cole.

Cole, sensing the movement, whips around, so instead of him, it's Sydney who is lined up in her father's sights. Jack's finger whitens on the trigger, but of course he doesn't pull it. He'd sooner put the gun in his own mouth than shoot her. Instead, he speaks, his voice surprisingly steady.

"Let her go."

"Or what?" Cole rolls his eyes. "You'll watch me shoot her?"

Jack looks at Sydney, and- hold on, what's she doing with her eyes? Blinking, or something, but it's almost as if she's blinking in a pattern, or something. Almost as if-

Even before I can complete the thought, Jack's gun hand snaps downward, and he squeezes off a shot that hits Cole squarely in the leg. Simultaneously, Sydney slams Cole's gun hand upward, and the bullet that erupts from the chamber flies harmlessly into the ceiling to bury itself in the plaster.

Then she dives away from him, landing in the combined arms of myself and her father, both of us tightening our grip, determined to never let go again. Laura then releases Donovan's leash so she can turn to her child, not realizing that Donovan is, of course, going to head straight for Cole's neck.

I've always loved that dog . . .

We finally manage to tear him away, and Cole turns out to be more or less alive, but if I had to lay money on either one being the outcome, I'd have laid it on 'less'. Bulldogs have got this way of just hanging on, and it doesn't do people many more favours than it did the actual bulls. I can also see that none of us is in any particular hurry to call for an ambulance, until Sydney points out that Will probably needs one, too, so we call the local 911 dispatch, and Devlin for good measure.

It's hard not to feel a little awkward once Cole and Will are out of the picture, taken away to the hospital- Sydney still doesn't do 'damsel in distress' very well, and Jack's got this problem with post-traumatic emotional displays. In the end it seems to fall to Laura, Donovan and me to give the first clumsy hugs and terse whispers of gratitude and relief, and I have to say I sort of wonder what I'd do without Laura there.

I wish, I guess, that I could finally get around the fact that she killed my father. I mean, I think I'd kind of be a hypocrite if I kept hating her for that, because I've killed fathers before, too; sure I can say they were bad guys, that they're better off dead, the world is a safer place without them, but . . . try telling their little boys that. So I can't pretend it would be somehow just of me to hate Laura for doing the same thing I've done to other people. Actually, I started trying to work through that shortly after she kidnapped me just prior to my wedding so she could find out more about Sydney from Jack. That was a goal, you see, that I could easily understand. I love my wife more than I love myself, and her actions at the time made it obvious that, in that at least, Laura and I have one thing in common.

So maybe I can try to build on that.

Now, though, all that I'm thinking about is wrapping my arms around Sydney's neck, burying my face in her neck, and never letting go.

"I was scared . . ." she whimpers at last, and those tears that give the men in her life such a hard time come spilling over, running down alabaster cheeks, onto my wet raincoat. I smooth her hair, hold her tightly, and rock her.

And when I look up, over her head, I see that Laura and Jack are doing the same thing.

O0O0O

Once we've all calmed down a little, we decide we have to head to the hospital to see how Will is doing. He's conscious when we arrive, and he's pretty self-reproachful about the whole thing.

"I didn't even look to see who it was," he sighs, as a plump, cheerful nurse sees to the purplish swelling on the side of his forehead, "I just opened the door. He slammed my head up against the wall, and I was sort of conscious when I fell, but I blacked out soon after that. Lot of good I did you, right, Syd?"

She laughs, and leans over to kiss his cheek.

"I never asked you to protect me," she points out. "Neither did Mike. You offered us your home, and we brought you a madman to thank you. If anybody should be saying they're sorry, it's not you, Wi- Peter, it's us."

"Naw," he shakes his head, then blanches, and raises his hands to his temples. "Whoops, the room just did a little somersault."

Sydney is of course immediately concerned, but the nurse assures her there's no sign of a concussion, and that it's just going to take Peter a little while to regain his bearings.

"He'll be himself long before he goes to sleep tonight," she predicts briskly. "You can't keep these young ones down for long."

That established, the only thing we have left to figure out is what to do with ourselves. At first Sydney wants to stay with Will and make sure he'll be all right, but her eyes say something different, and Will sees it.

"No," he shakes his head, more slowly this time. "You need to get home. You've got a little girl waiting for you, and it wouldn't be fair to her to make her wait any longer. Now, just get out of here, okay? But Sydney? Promise me something."

"Anything," she says firmly. "You name it."

"Promise you'll write."

She laughs abruptly, rushes over, and gives him a fierce hug before promising that she'll do just that. That settled, Will is quite comfortable with seeing us walk out the door, and when we get down to the parking lot, it's possible to see him looking out the window after us, waving after the car until we are long out of sight.

O0O0O

_Sydney_

O0O0O

Once I'd made sure that Will was going to be all right, I honestly couldn't wait to get home to my little girl. I'd had enough running for a lifetime, and even though I knew, realistically, that I might someday have to take off again, I did not plan on allowing 'someday' to edge its way onto my calendar for at least the remainder of the year.

And since I think even my calendar is a little afraid of me, I wasn't too worried.

Now, I'm sitting on the edge of my seat in the helicopter that both Mom and I insisted on being our method of transportation.

"She's been through enough," Mom had said, "and she is not going to be forced to ride in that pokey old truck all the way back- nor is she going to ride in that car, Jack, if you will be driving it. She needs to get home to her baby as soon as possible, and so does Mike. There will be no argument."

I think Dad was just opening his mouth for the sake of standing up to her, but Mom wasn't taking any chances. The deadly look that appeared in her eyes was both a warning and a mirror image of the look that often appears in my own. It was something of a strange feeling to see it in her own eyes, but also a comfort, of sorts. As if that death-threat stare really made us family. A strange family, yes, but still, a family . . .

Anyway, it had the same effect on Dad that it does on Mike, so I am now silently urging the helicopter to fly even faster as it heads over northern New Brunswick, toward our local high school's football field, where Lisa agreed to meet us with Emily.

She's there and waiting when we land, and I still don't know how I covered that ground so quickly- all I know is that I'm now holding my child in my arms, and I have my whole family assembled around me.

They could open the gates to Heaven right in front of me at this moment, and I would laugh at the sheer redundancy of the action.

"How was your trip?" Lisa twinkles, and I laugh giddily, pressing my cheek to Emily's.

"It was fast. Is she hungry?"

"Starving," Lisa says cheerfully. "I didn't feed her. I thought you'd want to."

I nod, and only Tom's presence - and that of my dad, too, I guess - keeps me from doing so right then and there. Instead, I thank them profusely the whole way home, all of us crammed in the back of the Bordens' car, and then fall silent so I can listen to my friends converse over the tight quarters they have provided us with.

"I told you," Lisa frowns at Tom, "that we should have brought one of their cars, too."

"I thought you'd want to talk to her." Tom defends himself. "She's your best friend, after all."

"Tom, I am sure that she's not exactly in a sociable mood right now. The poor thing's been living a nightmare this past week or so! The last thing I would do is try to pretend nothing has happened!"

"Well, you do that each time one of your dogs rips up my newspaper."

"Oh, yes, that one time Dax was a puppy. And why is it that they're only _my_ dogs when they get in trouble, but when they bring home blue, they're _our_ dogs?"

I smile, enjoying the friendly banter between them. Mike tightens his grip on my shoulders, and I know that he's having fun listening to it as well.

Curious, I sneak a peek at my parents, Mom all but sitting on Dad's knee because of the limited space in the back seat, and I'm slightly surprised to see that they're enjoying it, too.

But then, why should I be surprised? It reeks of normalcy- of a healthy, friendly relationship that is built to last forever. Some things that some of the members of our family seem to have, at some point, been cheated of.

Only, I guess that I never really thought that Mom would regret missing out on the little squabbles, or the missed/postponed family appointments. I never really thought she'd be the sort of woman who would treasure each little spat as one step closer to understanding your partner even more, although now, seeing her following the Bordens' happy wordplay with an expression of pure enjoyment, it seems impossible that she would not be.

Mom, I guess, was cheated of the same things I sometimes think I have been- a normal family, with regular members and typical events that are overcome relatively easily. And Mom, I guess, like me, wishes she hadn't been.

It's a new thought, and I ponder it all the way back to our house. Lisa makes me promise to call her the next day, and then she and Tom are gone, leaving all of us standing awkwardly around in the anticlimactic atmosphere of a job successfully completed.

"Well," Mom clears her throat, "Sydney has to feed the baby, of course, and Michael probably needs to help her get settled back in, so- Jack, why don't you show me around the house? It's really very lovely- have they done any work on it?"

I flash her a thankful grin, and she gives one back- an "enjoy yourself, and take your time" grin that makes me blush right down to the roots of my hair, though I have no idea why- it's not like we're going to do anything.

"Wow," I breathe, once we've reached our bedroom, "the last week has been-"

"Horrific? Frightful? Terrible? Appalling? Horrendous?" Mike offers, the words rolling of his tongue with startling readiness.

"That'll do, for a shortlist," I decide, rearranging my clothing so Emily, mouth full, can tell me exactly how much she needs me to stick around for a while.

"I'm sorry," he sighs, sinking onto the bed.

"What for?" I'm honestly startled.

"For not being able to give you a more predictable lifestyle. For not protecting you and Emily better. For not saying I love you more often. For being ready to sacrifice an eternity with you just so I could get revenge on a guy who wasn't even worth the bullet. For putting on mismatching socks . . . and for just drawing it to your attention."

I peek down at his feet.

"They're kind of cute, actually."

"You think?"

"I do. But Mike- all the other stuff you just said? That's bull."

"No, Sydney, I-"

"Don't argue with me," I warn him. "Not when I'm right. And I'm right, Mike. I'm right about this."

"Maybe, but-"

"No buts." I instruct him. "There are no buts, Mike. There will be no buts. I will not accept buts for this situation. These are but-less circumstances, do you understand?"

The corners of his mouth are twitching as he nods.

"Yes."

"Good. Now, here's my speech. After that, you can rant all you want, but I will not listen to it, because what I am about to say is true, and right now, it's the only truth that matters."

I take a deep breath, and look him right in the eye.

"I love you, not because of what you can give me, or what you may or may not have promised to do for me, or even because of what I was hoping you would be, but because of who you are. I love you for the wonderful person I always knew you were, but you never claimed to be. I love you for the child you have given us, and the home we've made together. I love who I am when I'm with you, and I love what we have become with each other. I love you because I want to, not because I have to, and I will love you forever, normal life or not. I will never stop loving you, so don't ever apologize for being who you are, because who you are is the man I love, and _nobody_ talks about him like that. Nobody. Not as long as I'm around."

He's nearing tears, and so am I, but I can't stop just yet.

"It's exhausting, sometimes, loving you . . . what was it the man said? About love? For weeks and months it- I can't remember . . . something about a steady ache. A physical pain. A steady drain on the strength. I can't remember. Anyway, that 'steady drain on the strength', Mike- I love that. That's how I feel about you, so you don't even need to apologize, because there's nothing to be sorry for. You got that?"

He nods, smiling, taking my hands in his.

"Yeah, I got it. But a simple, 'You don't need to beat yourself up like that, Mike,' would probably have done just as well."

I roll my eyes.

"So I needed to blow off some steam."

He laughs, and leans in to kiss away a stray tear lingering on my cheek. Then, rather than draw back, he stays close, his lips near enough to brush my cheek again as he speaks.

"Other men," he murmurs, quoting with an easy fluency that I envy, "it is said, have seen angels, but I have seen thee and thou art enough."

I don't know for sure what would have happened then, if Emily hadn't still been lying more or less in my lap, but I do have enough of an idea of what might have transpired to wish that she weren't.

O0O0O

Mom spends the night at our house.

So does Dad.

I guess they're still a little worried about us, and I can only appreciate that. I'm still not completely settled myself, so I'm not at all surprised when I find myself waking up at five thirty in the morning, and feeling like a walk is in order. I only make it to the front door, though, before I hear voices whispering on the front porch, and for one wild moment I am seized by terror, but then I recognize Dad's profile, and duck back, half embarrassed, to listen to what he's saying.

"I can fully appreciate that this whole situation is a little- strange, Laura. And to tell you the truth, I feel a little strange for standing here, saying what I'm about to."

"Don't." Mom urges quickly. Too quickly. Her voice is low, and charged with an unidentifiable emotion as she goes on.

"Don't, Jack," she urges, more softly, but still relentlessly. "Don't feel strange for saying it, I mean. Say it, by all means, but don't feel strange about it. I was the one who messed things up for all of us, Jack- you, Sydney and me. If I'd had the guts to have told you the truth - if I'd been as honest with you as I had always said I would - maybe we could have avoided this somehow. Maybe gone into the protection program, or something, and Sydney could have had a half normal life . . ."

She breaks off, her shoulders trembling, and I see Dad reach out to lay his hands on them, stilling them.

"Shh," he urges gruffly. "Just- listen. I- well, I'm not very good at- at telling people how I feel, anymore. I haven't been for a long time, and even though I'm getting better at it, I'm nowhere near what I used to be. But- I'm going to try hard to put this properly. I- I don't hate you. You said, once, that I must hate you but- I don't. I never have, Laura."

Mom takes a noticeable step back.

"I'm not Laura, Jack. I never was."

"Sydney said you wanted to be."

"I did. Maybe I still do. But that doesn't mean I _am_ Laura."

Dad takes a step in her direction, and since his legs are longer than hers, he ends up almost on top of her when he answers her.

"You are to me."

I don't wait to hear Mom's answer, even though I'd love to know what she says. Sometimes giving people a little privacy is more important than getting information. A smile tugging at my lips, I head back upstairs to bed.

O0O0O

The next morning, when we ask her, Mom agrees to hang around our house until the end of the week. Actually, I think that she'd have stuck around even if we hadn't asked her to. She's enchanted with Sackville, and Dad and Emily gave her an afternoon-long tour, leaving Mike and me to tidy up the house.

Well, that's what they _said_ they were leaving us to do, but they didn't seem to surprised when they got back and found it was no tidier than when they left, so I guess that sometimes, parents know an awful lot more than they like to let on.

She even came to the church family barbecue with us before she left. Not for the first time that week I felt a weird sense of unreality as Dad, Mike, Mom, Emily and I all grouped together for several impromptu photographs for the benefit of all the church's shutterbugs who seem to pop out of the woodwork any time there's a gathering. But it was a good feeling of unreality- like a wonderful dream you don't want to end. And when I got a spare minute, once Emily had been confiscated by our church's abundant population of teenaged girls, I drew her aside to speak to her.

"It's strange, isn't it?" she speaks before I do. "To act as if we're- we're normal. I know, it's really strange, but Sydney, I just want you to know that even though I couldn't give you a normal life, I hope that you can give Emily one. It's not too hard, really, I don't think- not as long as you don't spend your entire married life lying to your husband, and I really don't foresee that you will have any problems in that department, so-"

"Mom!" I interrupt quickly. "I- I wasn't going to complain. Far from it. I just wanted to say that- that I'm really happy you could stay for as long as you have, and that I really wish you didn't have to go back tonight. We may not be a normal family, but we're a real one, and that's all I ever really wanted to begin with."

"You're sure?" she looks so painfully hopeful that I feel like putting my arms around her and letting her cry. Has this been her guilty thought each night of her life since she left Dad and me? That I will grow up without even a semblance of normalcy, and it will be all her fault?

My heart goes out to her.

"I'm sure Mom." I reassure her, and delight in the unconcealed relief that flashes across her face. "Besides," I grin, "normal, I think, is highly overrated."

She has to laugh. "Maybe so, Sydney. Maybe so. But are you sure that isn't just your upbringing talking?"

I shrug. "So what if it is? At least it's an eloquent upbringing."

Her eyes dance, and she slips her arm through my own. "I can't argue with that. Now, how about we see what these hot dogs are like? That's the third person I've seen eating one, and the temptation is just too much for me to take anymore . . ."

Laughing, I walk over to the barbecue with her, pausing only to ascertain that Emily is still floating around somewhere in my vicinity, and isn't being too terribly spoiled.

__

So maybe it's not a normal life

, I smile to myself, _at least it's mine_.

O0O0O

Mike and I agree to stay behind and help clear away the barbecues when the picnic is finally over, but since Mom has a plane to catch, we stand in the parking lot to say good bye to her first. As I'm hugging her, I issue a directive in no uncertain terms.

"Promise me that you'll come back and visit us before too long, Mom. I mean it. Your granddaughter needs to know her grandmother. And- your daughter wants to get to know her mother."

Mom promises. Then she turns to Mike, and says nothing, but simply holds out a steady, questioning hand. He looks at it a very long moment, then squares his shoulders, puts out his own and takes her hand in his. One, two brisk shakes, and there is no heavenly chorus nor even a few idyllically chirping birds, but there's the promise of a new start, and that is enough.

Then we all look up as Dad approaches at a swift jog.

"I was worried you weren't going to get here in time to say good-bye!" I frown. "You weren't trying to move those barbecues with that shoulder, were you?"

Dad laughs quickly, glancing down at the blue sling he claims he has no need of, but, thanks to Mom and myself, is forced to wear anyway, then shakes his head.

"No, Sydney, I- I was packing."

"You were what?" I blink.

"Packing. Your mother has- well, she's invited me to go back with her to- to visit."

"To _Italy_?" I squeak, and he nods.

"Only for a month, though. Just to help her out a little. You and Emily are in good hands here, but your mother needs somebody to help her with her house."

"Well," I say cautiously, "I can't fault your generosity, of course, but she's been doing pretty well running it by herself for the past few years, Dad, and-"

"Oh, not running it," Mom jumps in quickly. "Selling it."

"Selling it?" I look from her to Dad, and back again, surprised.

"Yes. And I know it could take a while to find a buyer, but at least Jack's going to be there to help me get the ball rolling, and find me a place to stay."

"Find you a place where?" I ask, hardly daring to hope.

"Well- in England, for now. I've always liked England. The place I have now is really too big for a woman by herself, so I'll probably just buy myself a little house or something- perhaps in Yorkshire. I know of a particularly nice little place on the market there, very modern, and- well, we'll see how things work out. And then maybe, in a year or so- well, depending on how things go, Jack and I might be remodeling his apartment here."

"You're not serious?" Mike blinks, disbelieving, but not entirely upset either.

"I'm perfectly serious, Michael," Mom looks mildly affronted. "I don't joke about things like marriage."

"Especially not when you've been married to him for over thirty years," I agree, and she arches an eyebrow at me.

"No," she agrees, "especially not then."

"Well," I say, after a pause, "I guess- I hope you both have a safe flight. And Mom, maybe when Dad comes back over in a month, you'll come back with him, for a while?"

She smiles, and inclines her head.

"Maybe I will. But even if I can't- I . . . well." She smiles at me in vague, fond apology.

I nod, biting my lip. "Yeah, Mom. I know."

She smiles, leans in, and hugs me tightly for a second before turning to slide into the car, leaving me facing Dad. He takes a deep breath, and addresses me awkwardly.

"You're the only daughter I ever had," he tells me, and I smile up at him, my eyes dancing.

"Do let's hope so," I suggest, and his mouth twitches.

"Yes. Well- I just want you to know that if you need anything while I'm over there, you only have to call, and I'll be on the next flight home. I promise."

"I know you will, Dad. But- we'll be fine. Mike will take good care of us, and we'll take care of him. You don't have to worry."

"Not many parents _do_ have to worry," Dad observes, "but somehow it never seems to stop them from doing it anyway. It's nice, I think, to know that I am, in some small way, a normal parent."

I tilt my head to the side, and smile up at him.

"You don't have to be a normal parent, Dad. It's just enough for me that you're mine."

He nods, and leans down to wrap his arms around me in a bear hug. For just a second I'm five years old again, barefoot and sticky from my cherry Popsicle, hugging the strongest man in the world. Then I'm a grown woman, hugging the father who may not always have been there, but for sure always will be.

"Love you, Dad," I promise, and he nods.

"You too," he says. Then he pulls back, gives Mike a quick handshake, and says, "I know I don't need to tell you to guard them with your life."

"No, Jack," Mike agrees, "you don't. But because I would have done so anyway, I understand why you have to."

Dad nods, smiling slightly. "Thanks. And Mike?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Guard them with your life."

"Yes, Sir."

"Because it won't be worth anything anyway, if I get back and find out you didn't."

"No, Sir," Mike grins, and Dad smiles, too. "Have a nice trip," Mike offers, and Dad nods, his face relaxing.

"I plan to."

Then he gets in beside Mom, and pulls the door shut. Mike and I stand together, waving until our arms are sore, and the car has disappeared from sight. Then he looks down at me.

"Syd?"

"Yeah?"

"You do know it's not over, right?"

I think of Sloane, and how we have no idea still where he is, and whether or not he knows where we are, and I nod.

"Yeah, I know."

"You know it might not be over for a long time- maybe even years?"

I nod. I've had a lot of time to get used to the fact.

"Yeah, I do. But we'll deal with it when we come to it, right? There's no law saying we have to sweat over it for the next decade, or however long it takes, is there?"

He smiles - oh, that smile - and shakes his head. "No, I guess there's not. But- I wanted to tell you so badly that it was over, you know? That you weren't going to have to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder. I really wanted to tell you that- I think more than I realized at first."

I smile.

"I know."

He tightens his grip around me, looks down, and speaks.

"Syd?"

"Yeah?"

"You wanna get lost?"

I look back over my shoulder, to where the barbecues are already loaded onto their respective trucks, and a few families are relaxing together, Emily tucked in their midst. I know for a fact that they will be there for at least two or three hours more, so I look back up at my husband, smile, and nod.

"Sure."

Then we walk off together, hand in hand. Sackville is a tough town to get lost in, but it goes without saying that we're going to give it our very best shot.

We always do.

O0O0O

End

O0O0O

That's it. For now, at least- I really hope you enjoyed reading it even half as much as I enjoyed writing it.

I'm currently working on a few fun little Alias fics which I'll post sooner or later, but I'm also contemplating starting something larger again- Five Years was my baby, so to speak, and I found that it was really nice, over the summer, to have a goal of some sort. I know the new season airs soon, so fanfiction won't be as necessary a staple in the daily Alias diet as it is in the summer, but if you think that I should come up with a sequel to this, I'd love to make that my larger project. Possibly I won't begin it until next summer, when they will no doubt leave us with another cliffhanger, but if I find the time, I might just start it through the school year. I am, however, going to need some feedback encouraging me to that effect . . !

Now, here it is, for the last time. At least, until I start on the next fic . . .

Alias? The Alias characters? All of these, as I am sure anybody who's ever read any piece of Alias fan fiction before, no matter how seemingly small or insignificant, must know, are the property of those folks over at ABC Touchtone, etc. It was created by that nice fellow JJ Abrams, and his company with the freaky name- that is, Bad Robot Productions.

Any names that you might have recognized as trademarks that popped up from time to time throughout this story (Kleenex, Ford, Wal-Mart, whatever) are not mine.

If you don't recognize a person's name, though, that probably means that they're my creation. I did, however, use a few friends' names too. This is partly because they asked me to, and partly because I know so many people that no matter what name I gave a character, I already knew somebody with a variation of it anyway, unless you wanted a Canadian town full of people with Arabic or obscure Old Testament names. You get the picture . . .

Anyway, I hope you had fun- it kept me busy for most of the summer, and it's the first novel I wrote that I didn't feel like burning a few days after, so that's got to mean something, right?

Have fun going back to school/work/wherever, stay safe, and God bless!

Andi


	14. Epilogue

O0O0O

It's hard to say when, exactly, things more or less settled back to the way they were. It took longer than I had thought it would, since Mike had to come clean about what we had done for a living, and people were a little unsure of how to treat us for a while. We even got a call from Devlin, suggesting that we relocate, but I told him exactly where _he_ would be relocating to if he tried to move us now, so he let the matter drop. I was, I think, so especially vehement since this was the first time in my life that I could be completely honest with my friends without fearing the repercussions, and I wasn't about to give that up.

They are, incidentally, all wonderful people as well as terrific friends- after a couple months or so of slight uncertainty, you'd have never guessed that anything was different from the way it was before. I may be getting one or two more calls to baby sit than I usually do, but nothing I'm not thrilled to handle. I've also agreed to help out with the Pioneer program as fall rolls around, so I'm certainly going to be keeping busy. I suppose, really, that I need to- otherwise, I might get bored, and it's when I get bored that things start to happen. The last time I got bored I got up half an hour earlier than usual to go jogging, and I ended up getting tossed off a bridge and losing a good portion of my memory, so- busy is good.

Now, though, I'm still tired enough from our ordeal that relaxation is even better than busy. And miraculously, I have found time in which to relax- Dad is still enjoying himself - and Mom - across the Atlantic, Mike is at school putting the last of his papers in order before his summer vacation officially ends next week, and Emily has finally settled down to nap. I'm in a quiet, peaceful house that's just begging me to take some time to myself, and it doesn't have to ask twice.

I've just turned on the television and flopped down in front of it to fall asleep, Donovan at my feet and Francie on my shoulder (well, half on my shoulder, and half draped across the back of the couch) when the telephone rings. I feel relaxation slipping away, and my eyes cross with anger at the sensation.

I momentarily wish that I could pretend I'm not home.

Instead, I get to my feet, and head to the kitchen. If it's Dad, and I let it keep ringing, he'll panic, and even if it's not Dad, and the phone keeps ringing, Emily will wake up and start crying, and she'll know for sure that I'm home, so she won't stop until I go up there to comfort her. If it's a friend, they'll be sure to understand my reluctance to speak for long, and if it's a telemarketer, they won't want to let me speak for long once they've heard the sort of things that I'll be saying anyway.

"Hello?" I say testily, once I've snatched the phone from the wall mount, and a bored-sounding woman queries,

"Is Mr. Vaughn in, please?"

"No, I'm sorry, he's out at the moment. Is there a message?"

__

A BRIEF

_message_? I add silently.

"Yes, if you could please tell him that we have an update for him concerning information he requested three months ago?"

"Fine. May I ask who is calling, please?"

"San Quentin prison facility, Ma'am. Political prisoners division."

My heart slows as it freezes to a block of ice, heavy and cold in my chest cavity.

"I- I'm sorry?"

"San Quentin Prison, Ma'am."

"Yes, I- may I ask what information it was that my husband requested?"

"He wanted prisoner status for a Mr.-" she breaks off, as if reading a name, "Sark?"

No. Way.

"What- what information do you have for him concerning Mr. Sark, please?"

"Mr. Sark, it was discovered this morning, has escaped from our facility. Now, of course we have men out after him, and re-apprehension is expected to occur within twenty-four hours, but since your husband did call us, we thought-"

I slam the phone down, my hands trembling.

So.

It's not over yet.

O0O0O

O0O0O

That's honestly it. At least for this particular fic- of course I'm not going to leave it like that forever! I'm not cruel! Well, I'm not cruel for very long, anyway.

I have a couple other fics that will be up sooner or later, when I finish them, so you should probably watch for those before you watch for the sequel. There'll be a semi-long chapter fic, I think, that's more of a spoof than anything, but it's sure fun to write, so I hope that's some indication of what it will be like to read, too.

Yes, I've seen Mission: Impossible 2 and yes, the "get lost" line was loosely borrowed. I did, you will notice, fall short of using Ethan's actual line to Nyah, which was "Let's get lost." I honestly thought of using that before I remembered where I'd heard it before, and when I remembered it was from M: I 2 I felt like I was plagiarizing it, so I tried to change it a bit before I let Vaughn say it.

Oh, and Jen, class is one of my favourite places to write little scenes for my fics as well. I used Math and Modern History to write an entire scene for Five Years that never even made it past my chopping block- it just didn't seem to fit in with the rest of the story. But thanks, Ms. Jones and Mr. Olscamp, for turning a blind eye to the girl in the back of the class who was writing far too fast to actually be doing her schoolwork . . .

Since I'm sure you've read the previous thirteen chapters, I won't bother with the disclaimers. If you really want to read them, go back to chapter thirteen and knock yourself out. And if you have the time, please review! Your feedback helped me polish this the whole way through as I worked on it, but now I kind of need some encouragement to work on my others, okay? I'm counting on all of you!

'til later,

Andi


End file.
